


we could turn the world to gold

by CutiePi



Series: a verdant future (golden deer route) [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Casphardt Minibang 2020, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route, Getting Together, M/M, Mid-Time Skip, Minor Character Death, Pining, Pre-Relationship, hijinks ensue, like very minor. like i forgot there was a character death but there technically is, trace amounts of sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:41:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27685742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CutiePi/pseuds/CutiePi
Summary: Five years after Linhardt thought he lost his best friend for good, Caspar shows up on his doorstep, injured and in need of help. Just like that, Linhardt is thrust into a daring escape plan to get Caspar to Garreg Mach - before Imperial soldiers find him.
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez & Bernadetta von Varley, Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring, Linhardt von Hevring & Bernadetta von Varley
Series: a verdant future (golden deer route) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2024576
Comments: 19
Kudos: 53
Collections: Casphardt Minibang 2020





	1. you're stuck in my head (stuck on my heart)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to my entry for the casphardt minibang! my partner was the wonderful FM_Mars, whose beautiful artwork you’ll see in chapter 3. i plan on posting a chapter a day, so get hype to see it on wednesday!
> 
> huge thanks to my dear friend Lissa for beta-reading, it was… a lot to read lol. i also want to thank FM for their art and the mods of the event for their help, especially Karen who worked closely with our group.
> 
> no warnings apply! enjoy chapter 1!

_ Linhardt’s world is fire, and blood, and destruction, and death. It’s the school he’d spent a year acquainting himself with up in smoke. It’s the shops where he’d once bought sweet buns lying in rubble across the ground. It’s a white-winged beast in the sky crying out and then silenced. It’s the demonic beasts that gallop unnaturally across the battlefield. It’s his professor’s scream as they fall, from a great height no one could survive. _

_ His world is black and red, and waving above it all, a double-headed golden eagle. _

_ “We have to go,” Caspar says. _

_ Linhardt doesn’t respond. He’s frozen to the spot – he has been ever since he heard that scream, fading away to nothing. He can do nothing but stare, blankly, at a battle lost before it even began, at blood, red, red blood, leaching into the dirt and between the cobbles of the streets he’d once walked. _

_ “The army is coming,” Caspar continues, urgently. He’s not even being loud – he really must be afraid. “Lin, we gotta go before they get here! They’ll take us back to the Empire, you know that, don’t you?” _

_ Linhardt swallows shakily. “I know,” he says hoarsely. Smoke in his lungs. So much, destroyed. _

_ “So we have to run!” Caspar steps in front of him, planting his hands on his shoulders, so Linhardt will actually look at him. He does, though his eyes can barely focus. “They’ll take us back and make us fight–” _

_ “We can’t go.” It surprises both of them – Linhardt didn’t think he had it in him to disagree, let alone to interrupt. But he continues: “Where would we go?” _

_ “We could figure something out–” _

_ “No.” _

_ They’re both silent for a moment, and Linhardt’s gaze slides away from Caspar’s face and stares, dully, at the carnage around them. He isn’t at his best, currently, but his brain operates on reflex – when Caspar doesn’t think things through, he does. And what he’s thinking is that running will make them as good as the Empire’s enemies. Running means more fighting, and bleeding, and dying. _

_ Beneath a bit of rubble, he glimpses a hand, still and lifeless. _

_ “I want to go home,” he whispers. _

_ “Lin.” Caspar sounds desperate. “Linhardt. Come on. We can’t go back there. They-they’re the ones that did this, we can’t–” His voice breaks, and that’s enough to get Linhardt to refocus on him. His eyes are wet, and that’s how Linhardt realizes – Caspar knows his mind is made up even before he does. He thinks Caspar’s mind is probably made up, too. “Linhardt, come on. I can’t go back.” _

_ Linhardt imagines a life on the run, imagines Caspar fighting for others and for justice and never for his own life. The only ending he can picture is Caspar lying in the dirt and bleeding out like the rest of them. He shakes his head, but before he can say anything he hears the call of soldiers, close. _

_ “Lin,” Caspar whispers. He’s holding his hands, now, and tugging gently on them. “Come on.” _

_ The path he imagines with Caspar has nothing but destruction waiting at the end. And it hurts, knowing it will happen, but at the very least he doesn’t have to be there to watch it. Linhardt pulls his hands away, taking a step back, and he sees pain flash across Caspar’s features before he sets his jaw, turns tail, and takes off. _

_ It takes everything in Linhardt not to follow. _

_ He never sees his best friend again. _

* * *

Linhardt isn’t standing in the burning wreckage of Garreg Mach. He’s home, in the library, distracted from his reading by old, unpleasant memories. He sighs, resolutely turning his gaze back to his text, but the shadow cast by the battle five years ago obscures any coherent thought. He’s too tired to stop himself from recalling it – the way the students, those who hadn’t run or… worse, were given a scant hour to pack their belongings and head home. It was more time than the Knights of Seiros had, anyway; they had evacuated before any of the students could finish packing their bags, fleeing for goddess-knows-where. And Linhardt had gone home; with his schooling over, nevermind how unconventional his graduation had been, his father had pushed him into falling into his role.

“You have plenty to catch yourself up on,” he’d sneered, and Linhardt hadn’t argued – his father was completely right. Besides, how could he be disappointed? He’d always known a lifetime of governance and civil service would be his reward for completing his education. Father had set him to work, and Linhardt had taken up responsibility and fallen in line. 

He had literally nothing better to do. Edelgard had visited him once, shortly after his return to Hevring Manor, to offer him a place in the army, and he’d refused. His understanding was that he would be confined to his home unless – until – he changed his mind. He’d had the occasional distraction; Lysithea, for a while, wrote him regarding a bit of personal Crest research she was undertaking, but the letters had ceased less than a year into his confinement, and he’d assumed she’d taken his advice and gone to Hanneman with any further queries. His other former classmates from the Golden Deer, unsurprisingly, had made no attempt to get into contact with him. As for the Black Eagles…

Linhardt winces. The memory of the single visit Ferdinand von Aegir had deigned to pay him still chafes. He’d spent the majority of it making thinly-veiled attempts to convince Linhardt to join the army, and the rest of it prying into his personal business, trying to hear about any visitors he’d had or letters he’d received. When all Linhardt had to mention was his failed correspondence with Lysithea, Ferdinand had tried and failed to hide his disappointment. Linhardt hadn’t figured out what he was trying to get at until his father had made it clear a few days later…

“Lord Hevring?” Linhardt looks up from his book – he’s yet to read a single word. The courier dips his head in respect. “Minister Hevring would like to speak with you in his study.”

“Fine,” he mutters, abandoning his book and brushing past the courier.

His thoughts keep drifting, refusing to stay anchored to the present: his father, over breakfast, being the one to deliver the news.

“Have you heard from the Bergliez boy?”

Linhardt had tried very hard not to flinch. He’d done admirably, munching away on his toast. “Not since the academy. Why?”

“The Emperor is looking for him.” That had gotten Linhardt’s attention, as he looked up at his father with undisguised surprise. “He’s been causing trouble for Imperial troops all across the Alliance border. She wants him brought in on charges of treason. Linhardt.” His father had fixed him with a glare. “If you know anything about where he is, if you ever find out, you’d best report him immediately. I trust you understand the dire consequences that would face this family if you were caught withholding information about a wanted criminal.”

Linhardt had understood, but his father’s warning didn’t matter then, and it doesn’t matter now. He hasn’t seen or heard from Caspar since the Battle of Garreg Mach; before that talk with his father, he hadn’t known he was still alive, and given he hasn’t heard anything about him since, he may very well be dead by now, either captured by Imperial patrols and executed for treason or killed on the battlefield, as Linhardt had always expected him to go out. 

Linhardt doesn’t indulge in fantasies about where Caspar may be now, or in any ideas about him still being alive. What he can’t escape, no matter how he tries, are his memories, and the feelings they always stir up in his chest. His choice not to follow Caspar that day had been an outlier; he has always, from their first meeting at six to their battlefield experience at the academy a decade later, followed along behind him, if often at a leisurely pace, to ensure he didn’t get himself into any trouble. He’d followed Caspar from the Black Eagles into the Golden Deer – after the Battle of the Eagle and Lion, Caspar had been clamoring at a chance to learn from the powerful professor, and Linhardt had shrugged and said something about the Deer being more his speed. A complete lie, and obvious to Claude after he’d floundered his way through class with Raphael shouting wrong answers in his ear and Hilda plying Lorenz for his notes; when confronted, he’d said he wanted to study their dear professor’s Crest, and Claude had taken that for true and let him be. It  _ was _ true, sort of, but Linhardt had only really joined the class for one person.

It wasn’t about feelings, obviously. It made tactical sense – Caspar’s close-range, reckless fighting style required the assistance of a long-range healer, and Caspar could draw fire from Linhardt simply by existing. They made a good team. They always had. Feelings and friendship had nothing to do with it – they just fit together, a matched set. Even the professor had noticed and kept them together in battle formations, which suited Linhardt just fine.

When it came time to make the difficult choice, though, Linhardt hadn’t picked Caspar. If he wants to haunt Linhardt’s dreams with the impressions of his tears down his cheeks and his blood spilled across the dirt, that’s his right. At least Linhardt has peace and quiet; he’ll make do without Caspar’s warmth and light if he can at least have a bit of security.

He shakes himself out of his own head as he arrives at his father’s study, knocking and entering at his call. Count Hevring is seated at his oversized desk, attention on the papers spread before him; he keeps Linhardt waiting several moments before he finally speaks.

“Have you finished the report on–”

“Yes,” he says curtly; the interruption draws Father’s attention, making him look up at Linhardt with tight, narrowed eyes. He can’t find it in himself to be sorry – he certainly hopes his father didn’t call him all the way across the manor to ask if he’d finished a  _ report _ .

“Mind your manners,” Father warns, returning to whatever it is he’s scribbling so furiously. Finally, he says, “You’ve learned a great deal about your future duties since your return home.” He’s fishing for a compliment on his teaching; Linhardt stays silent, forcing him to continue. “I believe it may be time for you to focus on more pressing matters. Each day, the Empire draws closer to success–”

“I’m not going to war,” Linhardt says flatly, once more drawing a sharp look from his father. “I’ve been quite clear. I’m not as talented a fighter as everyone seems to think I am; I’m clearly better suited to deskwork, and you just said my work is satisfactory. I’m staying here.”

He isn’t sure what he’s expecting, but it isn’t for his father to stand with a tired sigh and walk around his desk to speak softly to him. “Linhardt, you need to understand. Your loyalties are in question.” Linhardt swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. “The Marquis Vestra distrusts any noble who refuses to throw himself whole-heartedly behind the Emperor’s cause; with your combat training, the expectation is that you will use it in service of her goals.” Linhardt is almost touched – he’s never seen his father so openly concerned for him. The effect is instantly ruined as he says, “We cannot risk our house’s reputation, its  _ safety _ , on your indiscretions. If you will not fight, you must find another way to prove your loyalty.”

Linhardt bows his head, more to hide his frown than out of respect. “I’ll think about it,” he says tightly. Apparently satisfied, his father returns to his seat; Linhardt takes it as the dismissal it is and leaves, his back ramrod straight.

He has more important things to do.

* * *

It’s getting late when Linhardt finally decides to turn in for the night, satisfied that he’s gotten enough done to keep his father off his back. He yawns and stretches – his back pops – and makes his way out of the library, his makeshift office, with the stubby little candle he’s been working by for hours in hand. He yawns as he pads down the dark hall, accompanied by the patter of rainfall against the windows; it is late. Later than he’d meant to stay up. That’s hardly a surprise for him, though; even if the work is tedious, it’s easy to get absorbed in his reports and statistics, to let his focus narrow to a dull point scratching out needless formalities. It may not be his preferred way of spending his evenings – it doesn’t even make the top three – but it at least wears him out enough that sleep should come quickly, and he won’t waste valuable hours tossing and turning.

Small blessings.

His train of thought is interrupted by one of the servants calling for him, her voice low and urgent so as not to awaken the rest of the household. “Lord Hevring,” she says, rushing up beside him. Her eyes are wide, the picture of barely-contained panic. “Sir, there’s an urgent visitor for you…”

Linhardt frowns at her. At this hour? If it’s not yet midnight, it’s damn close. “Send them to a guest room, I’ll speak with them tomorrow–”

“Apologies, sir,” the servant says, shifting anxiously on her feet. “But it’s-quite urgent. He needs to see you now. Sir.” She swallows. “He insists.”

Linhardt peers at her for another moment. The insistence, the interruption, the anxiety – whoever this visitor is, he must be extremely important to have her in such a state. He wonders if it might be Hubert, here to vaguely threaten him under cover of darkness. ‘Twas a dark and stormy night, and all that. As if on cue, thunder rumbles ominously. “Very well,” he says; he’s barely acquiesced before the servant is skittering away toward the entrance, and Linhardt half-hurries to keep up with her.

As he arrives in the entryway, the first thing he notices is that his mysterious visitor mostly certainly is  _ not _ Hubert. Hubert wouldn’t lean so heavily on the doorman, and he wouldn’t be dripping rainwater onto the carpet. In fact – Linhardt squints through the dark – the visitor is shorter and broader than Hubert. Something stirs in his chest, a bit of familiarity; but it simply isn’t possible, it  _ isn’t _ , because even if something about that build and presence is achingly similar,  _ he _ is halfway across the continent, most likely, and on the run, and he ran away from Linhardt and he couldn’t possibly have run  _ back _ , not into hostile territory, not in a terrible thunderstorm, he simply  _ couldn’t _ .

Lightning flashes, illuminating brilliant blue hair, overgrown and tied back in a sopping ponytail. Linhardt would know it anywhere; he feels the recognition deep in his soul.

“Caspar?” he breathes, as the servant who’d brought him here rushes to help support him.

Caspar looks at him, eyes bleary but still that electrifying blue Linhardt remembers, and breaks into a wobbly grin. “Heya, Lin,” he says hoarsely. “‘Sgood to see you again.” 

Thunder booms, and Caspar’s knees give out as he goes unconscious; the two people supporting him aren’t able to keep him up, and they lay him down as gently as they can onto the carpet as Linhardt springs into action, rushing to his side. The servants turn him onto his back, and Linhardt looks him over – he’s soaked to the bone, his hair hanging in damp straggles around his face. He’s hot to the touch – fever – and he’s got ingrained crevices under his eyes; he clearly hasn’t slept in… too long. Far too long. He’s scratched up and bruised, and his ankle is hideously swollen. 

Linhardt swallows, hands trembling as he examines him, his best friend in the world here again after five exhaustingly long years.  _ Here _ – in the home of an imperial loyalist who’d do anything for power and status, even send his own son to war. Caspar is wanted, and his father is desperate to lick the emperor’s boots and encourages Linhardt to do the same.

_ You must find another way to prove your loyalty _ .

Horseshit.

“Get him to a spare room,” Linhardt tells the servants, relieved when his voice doesn’t shake. “In a quiet corner of the manor. And do not speak of this to my father, or  _ anyone _ .” The servants nod tightly, and Linhardt helps them hoist Caspar up and get moving. 

With the attention firmly off himself, he blinks, his eyes surprisingly misty. He hadn’t realized how good it would be to see Caspar again, even like this, even with all the trouble it will undoubtedly cause him.

He hadn’t realized he’d been operating as if Caspar were already dead. But he isn’t – he really, truly isn’t. He’s  _ here _ , and he’s alive.

Linhardt just has to make sure he stays that way.

* * *

Linhardt doesn’t sleep much that night.

As soon as Caspar’s laid down in a bedroom far, far from his father’s office, Linhardt gets to work. It’s like muscle memory – checking vitals, scanning for wounds, determining what medicine to give him to help him heal. He sends the servants for supplies, for his old healer’s kit that he’d left, unused, in his bedroom for five long years. It’s fitting that the first person he uses it on after all this time is the very same person who’d benefitted from its contents most frequently.

Funny, how life works.

Linhardt does all he can to patch his cuts and bandage his sprained ankle. He prepares a tincture for the fever, something he can take when he wakes. He pulls off his wet outer layers to hang them up to dry, from his ridiculous poncho to a tattered overcoat that brings back memories of the fights he used to pick back in school, along with his sopping boots and socks. Caspar’s fist is clenched tight, even in his sleep, but when Linhardt pries it open he finds himself staring at the charm he’d made Caspar what feels like a century ago, a little painted slat of wood he’d sworn would ward off lightning and keep him safe from danger. Linhardt swallows at the sight of it now, amazed Caspar’s kept it so long, touched he’d pulled it out tonight as he trudged through wind and rain to return to him, trusting in his promises even after all this time–

Anyway. Linhardt gently takes it from his hand and sets it on the bedside table. Just so it doesn’t get lost.

That’s all he can do. He tips the overworked servants with gold he scrounges out of his medical bag and settles in to watch him and wait. He studies him – how he’s grown, how he’s changed. He’s taller, now – thank the goddess, not as tall as Linhardt is – and his shoulders have broadened out. His muscle is more defined, too, across his arms and where his shirt clings to his chest and in his abdominal region, because Linhardt checked him over and had, perhaps, noticed. He looks like he hasn’t cut his hair once since their time at the monastery; Linhardt can’t imagine Caspar enjoys running around and fighting when it can so easily slide into his face, but he also supposes a decent barber is hard to come by, on the run. He’s also grown a stubbly mess of a beard, if it can even be called that, patchy across his chin and neck. The Caspar he remembers lamented the fact that every other boy in their class had to shave regularly, while he couldn’t even grow a single hair.

“I don’t have to shave regularly,” Linhardt had said, and Caspar had scoffed and said he didn’t count, which Linhardt had accepted as fair. He still doesn’t have to shave regularly; Caspar, on the other hand, very much does. Terribly. Linhardt isn’t above admitting that he hates the facial hair monstrosity.

Beyond that, Caspar’s spotted with a few scars that speak to terribly close calls; Linhardt can only imagine the stories that go with them, not that he has to. Caspar will likely brag about them as he always does, as soon as he wakes up.

Once he wakes up.

When he… wakes…

Linhardt startles awake at a knock on the door. He blinks – he hadn’t even noticed himself falling asleep, but apparently the armchair he’s still sitting in had been more comfortable than he thought. He yawns, stretching and popping his back. There’s bleary, early-morning light streaming through the windows. What a strange night, and such a strange–

His gaze falls on Caspar, still lying motionless in bed, and he startles. He didn’t dream it. Caspar is actually here, hiding in his home, in the middle of the Empire–

There’s another knock, and now Linhardt’s panicking, praying to the goddess or the saints or  _ whoever is listening _ that it’s not his father or a guard because he doesn’t have time to hide Caspar or come up with an excuse or anything. He shoots to his feet, swallows heavily, steels himself, and finally cracks open the door.

“Sir.” It’s the woman from last night, and his shoulders slump in relief. He steps aside to let her in – she’s carrying a tray of tea, goddess bless her. “I hope all is well with your guest.”

Linhardt hums as she sets the tray down on the desk. “It should be. Thank you.” Still, though, she lingers, hesitating, and he asks, “Is there something else?”

She takes a deep breath. “Sir. I know you instructed us not to… speak of your guest to anyone.” His heart rate spikes. “But the fact is, you – we – need help to look after him, and I know there are many in this manor who remember…” She lowers her voice, in deference to this secret they’re keeping. “...Lord Bergliez fondly. Thom and I have spoken to a few – not many, I swear – who are willing to help with food and medicine and… anything else he needs. Someone should be by in a few hours with breakfast and a fresh change of clothes.” She ducks her head. “I apologize for doing this without consulting you, but–”

“It’s fine,” Linhardt breathes. He’s… shocked is an apt descriptor. Everyone who works in this house works on his father’s coin, and he assumed that their loyalty extended no further than that. Not to mention that he and Caspar had raised  _ hells _ for the servants during their childhood. And yet, people are  _ volunteering _ to put their lives on the line for his sake. He’s relieved, and overjoyed, and so much more at ease now that he knows he isn’t responsible for protecting Caspar completely by himself. “Thank you,” he says faintly. “Ah-spread my thanks to the others you’ve spoken to, as well. That will be all.”

The servant dips her head and takes her leave, leaving Linhardt to try to come to terms with the idea that there are employees who actually care for him, not as the future lord of the manor but as  _ himself _ . Goodness.

He’s still wrapping his head around it when he hears a soft groan. In an instant, he’s at Caspar’s side, watching as he stirs a bit and his eyes peek open and then–

“Is that ginger tea?” he rasps. Linhardt could cry with relief, but he doesn’t, just fetches the pot and pours them each a cup. Silently, he places them on the bedside table, and Caspar whines. “C’mon, Lin, I can’t reach…”

“You need to sit up,” he says, slipping into medic mode because it’s a hell of a lot easier to deal with than the emotional turmoil of speaking to his friend again. “Come on, then, I can’t lift you if you’re deadweight.” With much maneuvering, they get Caspar sitting up, nestled by pillows and the headboard. Caspar holds his hands out for the tea and Linhardt presses the medicine he’d prepared into his hands instead.

“This first. Believe me, you’ll want the tea to wash it down.” Caspar obediently drains the bottle of its contents, and his face screws up at the taste; Linhardt is quick to pass him his teacup and watch patiently as Caspar gulps it down, with no regard to the tea’s temperature.

“That hit the spot,” he says, sounding more like himself, if not significantly more exhausted. “Man, it’s been forever since I had a good cup of ginger tea. No one can make it like the people here can! Everywhere else it’s always just kinda bitter and–”

“Caspar,” Linhardt interrupts, because his patience does have limits. Caspar looks at him, smiling brightly, if weakly, despite the dark bags beneath his eyes. Now that he has his full attention, he’s a bit at a loss. There’s much that he wants to say, questions he wants to ask, confusion swirling in his brain, and yet. All he’s able to concoct is a deeply honest, “What the fuck?”

Caspar’s eyes go wide. “You  _ swear _ now?” he whispers, scandalized.

“I always swear, this isn’t–”

“Not in your  _ parents’ house _ ! Lin! What if your father hears–”

“He isn’t going to hear, Caspar, honestly–”

“ _ Man _ , you think you know a guy, and then you see him again for the first time in years–”

“Five, to be precise.”

“–and he went and got pretty and started  _ swearing _ –”

“ _ Caspar _ .” Caspar pauses, looking at him.

“Hey, Lin.”

“Hello. I’m hoping once that medicine kicks in you’ll be a little more lucid.”

“I’m lucid now!”

“No, you’re not.” Caspar pouts at him, but Linhardt merely plucks the teacup from his hands and sets it aside before he spills and burns himself. “And you clearly weren’t lucid last night, either, because I don’t know what else could possess you to come  _ here _ , in the middle of a hostile nation, to the home of an imperial loyalist.”

Caspar frowns. “You’re an imperial loyalist? Shit.”

Linhardt sighs. He can already feel a headache coming on. “Not me. My father. Who doesn’t know you’re here  _ yet _ , but the secret could come out at any moment.”

Caspar sighs, and he looks genuinely… remorseful. Linhardt almost feels guilty for telling him off. “Sorry, Lin. I shouldn’t have come. It’s just…” His face screws up as he stares blankly at the covers, and he looks so pained that Linhardt’s heart breaks, just a bit.

“What happened?” he asks softly. “Because you are in  _ terrible _ shape.”

Caspar laughs mirthlessly, his fingers twisting together in his lap. “Got captured.” Linhardt’s eyebrows shoot up as he takes a sharp breath, and Caspar laughs again. “Yeah, pretty bad. I was getting carted along to… the capital, I guess, I don’t know, when I saw my chance and made my daring escape. I was running for a while. Then the scenery started looking familiar. I kinda just came here on instinct. It made sense at the time!” He scratches his head. “Of course, by that point, I hadn’t eaten in a bit…”

Linhardt sucks in a deep breath. “Then it’s true. You have been fighting the Empire all this time.”

Caspar puffs his chest out proudly. “Damn right I have! Been all over. Leicester, Faerghus – which sucks, by the way, not worth the trip – I’ve spent time in the Empire before and come out fine, too, so I thought I’d be okay, but I guess I just let my guard down.” He sighs, deflating. “Gotta say, it’s not a great feeling.”

“I would imagine not,” Linhardt murmurs. If he were in Caspar’s shoes… well, he wouldn’t be in Caspar’s shoes, because he doesn’t do daring – stupid – things like starting a resistance movement and fighting against his homeland. But even supposing he did, he doubts he’d be brave enough to escape and just  _ run _ . And Caspar had run here, right back to him.

Imagine that.

“I know I shouldn’t be here,” Caspar says guiltily, snapping Linhardt back to the moment. “I know I’m just gonna cause trouble for you. But… I am really glad to see you, Linhardt.” He almost sounds shy, but he’s beaming at him, his face all lit up. “Look at you! You’ve changed so much!” 

Linhardt doesn’t feel like he’s changed a bit. Gotten a bit taller, perhaps. Grown his hair out. Maybe put on some weight – he has been sitting around all this time. Still, he forces a small smile and says, “Not as much as you. Look at you, with a beard.”

Caspar winces, rubbing his chin. “You don’t have to be nice about it. I know I can’t grow a good beard to save my life, I just haven’t shaved in a while.”

“Good. I hate it.”

Caspar barks a laugh, and Linhardt can’t help but smile a bit himself. “ _ Man _ , I’ve missed you. What have you even been doing? More research? Fishing?”

Linhardt sobers. “Nothing nearly that exciting.” He pretends not to hear Caspar’s scoff at the idea that research and fishing could be exciting. “You know my father – he always said, once my schooling was finished, it was straight to work for me. And, well…”

“And you’re  _ working _ ?” Caspar exclaims, loud enough that Linhardt flinches and prays there’s no one around to hear. “Seriously? You’re not just pretending to get him off your back. You’re actually working  _ for real _ .”

Linhardt huffs, annoyed. “ _ Yes _ , Caspar, I’m working. We can’t all gallivant across the continent fighting wars. Some of us have other expectations to live up to.”

He’s expecting Caspar to argue back, to push him, to interrogate him, because he knows the Linhardt he knew wouldn’t give in to his fate so easily. What he doesn’t expect at all is for Caspar to frown and soften and say, gently, “You’re right. Sorry, Lin. There’s nothing wrong with that! It’s just not what I would’ve expected, that’s all.”

Linhardt makes a soft noise of agreement, because he’s floundering too much to come up with an actual response. An argument, he’d been prepared for. Gentle acceptance of the person he’d become wasn’t a possibility in his mind – apparently, Caspar  _ has _ grown. Perhaps outgrown him.

Caspar smiles at him – it’s soft and knowing and devastatingly handsome, even surrounded by that shitty beard. “I can’t get over how nice it is to see you again, and talk to you, and…” He ducks his head, carefully reaching out to pat Linhardt’s hand. Linhardt swallows, his throat suddenly dry. “It’s just really good,” Caspar concludes. “I guess I never got used to not seeing you, so now things finally feel normal again.”

Linhardt finds himself nodding, because it’s true – he never really got over the urge to hunt down Caspar and nap on his shoulder, or complain about his day, or talk through the bit of Crest research he  _ did _ manage to get through in between endless reports. “It’s good to see you, too,” he says carefully, “but goddess, Caspar, this is such a terrible place for you to be. My father would turn you in without a second thought. He may even turn  _ me _ in for hiding you, just to curry favor for himself.” He sighs. “If you get caught, we’re both dead. Or  _ worse _ .”

Caspar frowns. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be here.” He shifts a bit, wincing. “So I’ll go. I don’t want you to get in any trouble–”

“No.” Linhardt’s palms go sweaty, and his heart pounds as nerves twist in his gut. He’s surprised by the abrupt refusal, but it makes sense. He’s already spent several years grieving Caspar, and he’s not ready to do it again. “Absolutely not. You’re unwell, your ankle needs time to heal-if you leave now, you’ll be captured for sure. You’re as good as dead out there.”

Caspar watches him, eyebrows stitching together in confusion. “But… if I stay here…”

“If you stay here,” Linhardt says resolutely, “you’re getting food and shelter and treatment, and if you’re quiet, we won’t be caught. This is… this is your best option. Stay here, until you’re healthy again.”

Caspar’s still watching him like a hawk. “But…” he says slowly, “I thought… your father…”

“It will be fine.” He sounds a lot more confident than he feels. It occurs to him that he’s practically begging Caspar to stay; but it’s not like that, he’s just making the wisest decision. Caspar is safest here, where Linhardt can keep an eye on him. “Stay. When you’ve recovered, then you can leave.”

Caspar stares at him for a few moments more. “Are you sure, Lin?” he says dubiously. “I mean, not that I don’t wanna stay, but–”

“I’m sure.” This time, Linhardt is the one to reach for him, to gently take his hand in his own. “Let me look out for you,” he says quietly. He has to – Caspar had covered his back and taken care of him and stood up for him for years, care that he’d repaid by turning him away when he needed him most. The least he can do now is return the favor; then, when Caspar inevitably leaves again, Linhardt can at least feel that he doesn’t owe him anything more, and he can live without the crushing guilt.

Caspar blinks at him, wide-eyed. “Okay,” he says. “If you’re sure. Just promise you’ll tell me to leave if you get fed up.”

He won’t. “I will,” he says. “But honestly, Caspar, that isn’t what this is about. You’re not here as a houseguest, you’re here to recover. I’m a healer, remember?”

Close-range fighter, distanced healer. It’s just like old times – Caspar had rushed into danger, and now Linhardt will deal with the aftermath. It’s terrifyingly real now, with higher stakes than he ever could have imagined back then, but he’s determined.

He failed Caspar once. He is never, ever going to do it again.

* * *

Caspar sleeps. For many, many days.

Oh, he wakes in fits and starts. And when he does, Linhardt is there; his father has never been very big on family dinners, as long as they don’t have company over, so Linhardt is free to work, eat, and, often, sleep in the guest bedroom, though he makes his way up to his own room whenever he can so he at least doesn’t destroy his neck and back from sleeping in that armchair. When Caspar wakes up, Linhardt feeds him and checks how he’s feeling. They don’t make much smalltalk – even conscious, Caspar is weak and exhausted, and Linhardt wants him saving his strength. So much the better, as he has no idea how to even  _ begin _ talking to him.

Not to say his days outside of Caspar’s waking periods are business as usual. Linhardt finds his work frequently interrupted – he has to check Caspar over regularly, to see that his cuts are healing well and his ankle is set and his fever isn’t too high, and then he has to worry about Caspar, about being discovered, about what would happen to him if something like this happened again and Linhardt wasn’t around to help.

And then he wonders: what has Caspar’s life looked like, all these years? He has all the marks of someone well-traveled, and the scars of someone who’s been in many careless fights. What people has he met? What has he seen – what horrors, what joys? And then Caspar will stir in his sleep, and Linhardt will start right back in checking on him.

Finally, Caspar’s fever breaks. It’s one of the nights Linhardt spends in the armchair, and he’s awoken by Caspar’s quiet, pained moans. He spends an hour sopping Caspar’s brow with a damp cloth and murmuring soothing nonsense he isn’t even able to hear, and then Caspar seems to let out a sigh and sleep peacefully.

Caspar is awake before noon the next day, his eyes bright despite the bruised shadows beneath them, and he eats breakfast with a rigor Linhardt’s far more accustomed to. Said rigor means Linhardt’s forced to focus on his work rather than fixating on the  _ carnage _ Caspar makes of his meal, but there’s a familiar irritation to Caspar’s abysmal table manners that warms his chest and reminds him that he is, at least, healthy enough to make such a mess in the first place.

After breakfast, Caspar is quiet, but no matter how many times Linhardt glances sideways at him, he remains awake. He tries not to feel too proud of himself, but really – he’s nursed Caspar back from the brink of death. Apparently, he still has his knack for healing. With every look at him, Linhardt is reminded that Caspar is alright again.

Well. Mostly alright. With every glance, Linhardt is  _ also _ reminded of the parasite on the lower half of Caspar’s face.

“Sit up,” he says abruptly, when the sight of it becomes unbearable. “I’m shaving your beard.”

Caspar’s eyes go wide with surprise, even as he instinctively follows orders. “Oh, uh, okay. Thanks?”

“No need to thank me,” Linhardt says seriously, getting up to rummage through his medical bag. “It’s more for my sake than for yours.”

Caspar laughs, then his eyes go wide as Linhardt emerges with a straight razor. “Uh, you carry that around with you in your medical bag?”

Linhardt waves a hand – the one not holding the blade. “Nonsense,” he says. “I was just storing it there. I brought it in here as soon as I saw that hideous thing.”

Caspar rubs at his chin thoughtfully. It makes a horrible scraping noise against his skin. “You mean my beard?”

Linhardt winces and pulls out the rest of his shaving kit. “If you choose to call it that. I prefer to think of it as some eldritch interloper.” He brings the supplies over, sitting on the bed facing Caspar. “Chin up. Hold still.”

Linhardt leans in close, carefully using the shaving brush to rub soap all across Caspar’s ridiculous line of facial hair. Perhaps predictably, he’s not finished with the first step when Caspar starts filling the quiet. “Have you started having to shave yet? I remember back in school you didn’t.”

Linhardt hums softly in acknowledgement. “Not often,” he says. “But sometimes.” The hair on his face grows slowly, and it’s so fine that he can go a long while without it being noticeable. So much the better – nearly every time Linhardt shaves, he cuts himself. He decides he doesn’t need to tell Caspar that part.

“Really?” Caspar says. “That’s great! I remember back in school everyone was so jealous of how smooth your skin was.”

Linhardt frowns. “It’s still smooth,” he says, and Caspar lights up with glee.

“Ha! I  _ knew _ it,” he crows. “I knew you always secretly cared about how you looked.”

Linhardt huffs, setting the brush aside. “I’d avoid poking too much fun at someone who’s about to have a blade to your neck.”

Caspar laughs. “Sorry, sorry,” he says, and he falls silent as Linhardt raises the razor, slowly gliding it against his skin. He has to stop frequently to wipe the hair from the blade, and it’s during one of these interludes that Caspar speaks up again. “Remember,” he says quietly, with a little laugh, “when my father grew that beard? When we were eleven?”

Linhardt snorts. “ _ You _ were eleven. I was still ten. I wish I could remember my father’s insult for it – it made me laugh. Something about bears?”

“Probably a wild animal comparison,” Caspar says, laughing. “He loved those. And my father  _ hated _ it. But, I mean, yours kinda had a point. He  _ is _ pretty unruly.”

“And look at you,” Linhardt says drily, “Chip off the old block.”

Caspar’s brow furrows, and he groans. “That’s low, Lin,” he grumbles. “That’s the last thing I want to hear.”

Linhardt raises an eyebrow. “Oh? You don’t say? I seem to recall someone mentioning  _ very _ often–”

“ _ Lin _ , c’m _ on _ .”

“–how much they hoped to one day be like their brave, strong father–”

“It was a different time!” Caspar complains, followed by a sharp “ _ Ow _ !” as the razor nicks him. Linhardt frowns and presses a finger to the wound, Healing it. Caspar sighs. “Thanks, Lin,” he says, sounding abashed. “Anyway, it’s not like I admire my father all that much these days. Not after… y’know. Everything that’s happened.”

Linhardt’s frown deepens at the reminder, but beyond a soft noise of agreement, he remains silent. That silence stretches for a long moment as Linhardt diligently continues his work.

“You know,” Caspar says finally, his tone light, like a joke, “it’s kinda dangerous, trusting you so close to my neck with a sharp blade.”

It’s a peace offering. An unnecessary one, since Linhardt wasn’t upset with Caspar to begin with, but one he’ll accept anyway. “You’re right,” he drawls. “I expended all that time and effort to nurse you back to health only to kill you in the bloodiest, most intimate manner possible.”

“People change, Lin,” Caspar says solemnly. “Maybe you’re over your fear of blood now. Maybe you think blood is pretty cool. I don’t know.”

Linhardt huffs. “If I thought blood was  _ pretty cool _ , I’d have enlisted in Edelgard’s war. Yet here I am.” He finishes cleaning the razor, then sets it to the side. “There. You’re finished.”

Caspar lights up, immediately beginning to rub his hands across his face. “Aw, nice!” he says. “This feels a million times better. Thanks, Lin.”

Linhardt snorts, standing to put away his kit. “Don’t thank me. You  _ look _ a million times better, so it was really a selfish act.”

Caspar continues stroking his clean-shaven chin as he watches Linhardt put the shaving kit back in his medical bag. “So how’s…” He’s clearly fumbling for a way to keep the conversation going. It’s almost sweet. “...work?” Ah, no, Linhardt thinks, he was probably trying to wrap his head around the concept of him doing work. That might be even more endearing.

“Work is fine,” he says, mildly amused. “Dull, but that’s to be expected. Why, do you want to hear about it?”

Caspar’s expression is priceless, as he could not more obviously be trying to hide his disgust behind a veneer of supportiveness. “Uh,” he says. “Well… if you… want…”

Linhardt snorts. “I’ll spare you the noble nonsense,” he says, just to watch Caspar relax. “Believe me, it’s barely of interest to me, and I actually know all the details. You’d likely find it incomprehensible.” He returns to the bed, sitting on the side of it to give Caspar plenty of space. “Actually, though, I wonder if I could ask you something. What will you do when you leave?”

Caspar cocks his head. “What do you mean?” he asks, frowning. Linhardt raises an eyebrow.

“I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you’re likely to make a full recovery.” Caspar laughs; pride stirs in Linhardt’s chest, as if making Caspar laugh is the greatest thing he could do. Ridiculous of him. He clears his throat. “You can’t stay here forever, I’m afraid, because my father would likely find you eventually. So when you’re feeling well again, what’s your plan? Will you return to your vagabonding?”

Caspar thinks for a moment, once again scratching at his chin. Honestly, he’s obsessed. “What month is it, again?” he asks abruptly. Linhardt frowns at the rather abrupt subject change.

“It’s the Red Wolf Moon,” he says, but before he can ask why it matters Caspar’s barreling on.

“And you said it’s been five years, right? So-wait.” Caspar squints at him for an uncomfortably long moment. “Wait! Your birthday!”

Linhardt blinks, surprised, his cheeks warming.  _ That’s _ Caspar’s concern? He really is ridiculously sweet. “You just missed it,” he says. “Sorry.”

Caspar looks  _ devastated _ , and his face falls. “What?! No, c’mon. I can’t believe it!” He crosses his arms over his chest and honest-to-goddess pouts. Linhardt holds back a laugh – he’d surely take it the wrong way.

“I’m sorry, Caspar, but you’ve missed five of them now, so I’m not sure why this one is so uniquely disappointing.” He tilts his head. “Anyway. What do the month and year have to deal with your plans?”

Caspar perks up at the reminder. “Oh, yeah! Well, it’s been five years, right? And next month is the Ethereal Moon? So obviously I’m going to Garreg Mach.”

Linhardt blinks once. Twice. Had he… heard wrong? Could that possibly be  _ right _ ? “I beg your pardon?” he says.

Caspar has the audacity to roll his eyes. “Uh, Lin, five years? We made a promise, remember? The class reunion?”

Linhardt scoffs. Honestly, the nerve, acting like  _ he’s _ the one being ridiculous here. “Caspar. The Imperial army conquered Garreg Mach, and Rhea has disappeared. There’s not going to be a class reunion in the middle of war, in a stronghold occupied by the other side, when the festival isn’t happening because the archbishop is missing.”

Caspar frowns at him. “First of all,  _ I _ heard that the army doesn’t really use Garreg Mach, just watches it to see if anyone from the Church returns. It’s actually mostly occupied by bandits right now.” That’s  _ worse _ . Caspar fails to realize this and continues. “Second, uh, the Millennium Festival doesn’t really matter. Our promise wasn’t to go back and have a blast at the festival, it was to go back after five years for a class reunion.” He crosses his arms. “So, yeah, I’m definitely going back.”

Linhardt sighs, exasperated. “Caspar, if the army is watching the monastery, don’t you think they’ll see you, a wanted criminal, sneaking in?”

Caspar waves a hand. “I can be sneaky. Trust me, Lin, I’ve grown a lot.” He makes some ridiculous wavey-eyebrowed face at him, perhaps to communicate growth. Linhardt doesn’t get it. “Besides, once I’m there, Claude will have a plan!”

“Claude is running the Alliance,” Linhardt says, tiredly. “ _ If _ he’s even there, what plan could he possibly have? The Alliance is  _ neutral _ .”

Caspar laughs. “Aw, I’m not worried about that. Claude’s a smart guy, he’ll have something figured out.”

Linhardt does his absolute best not to sigh hard enough for his soul to escape his body. This entire conversation is  _ exhausting _ , and knowing Caspar, he won’t be easily convinced. And it’s not really Linhardt’s job to convince him. That settles it: “Whatever you say,” he says. “I should get some more work done.”

Caspar frowns at him, likely surprised that he’s given up so easily, but he remains silent as Linhardt returns the room’s tiny desk. Linhardt allows himself to be absorbed by reports and statistics to forget about Caspar’s proposed suicide mission; the next time he glances over at him, Caspar has dozed off once more.

* * *

Since Caspar’s arrival, Linhardt has interpreted his father’s silence toward him as a blessing. Some gift from the goddess, thanking him for not joining the crusade against her or rewarding his kindness in helping out a friend. A good omen, even.

He should’ve know better.

“Father,” he says, half exasperated and half affronted. “Must I?”

His father frowns at him over his desk. It’s the first time he’s looked at Linhardt since calling him into his study. “Yes, of course you must,” he says sharply. “As I told you, I require that you pay the former count a visit to discuss Varley territory’s failure to produce adequate resources for the creation of weapons and armor for Her Majesty’s war effort. As the future Minister of the Interior, you must learn how to balance the demands of your fellow nobles to keep the flow of resources running smoothly.”

Linhardt tunes him out the moment he launches into his nonsense about responsibility. “But Varley is so  _ far _ ,” he protests. Absurdly far, really, from the patient in desperate need of help confined to his bed on the first floor. “You have much more skill with negotiations. Surely you’d be better suited for this.”

“Nonsense,” Father scoffs, his attention falling back to his papers. “You will need to learn how to speak to your peers eventually, Linhardt.” What a  _ dreadful _ sentence. “Besides, the count has fallen far from grace. He holds little more power than you, and you are a mere heir.”

“I’m flattered,” he mutters.

His father glances at him over his glasses with a little huff. “The point is, you needn’t be nervous. This is good practice for your future. Besides, you must want a break from paperwork.”

Linhardt narrows his eyes. Father hasn’t resorted to blatant bribery in a long time. But he  _ would _ like a break from paperwork… “Travel this time of year is so tedious,” he complains. Focus, Linhardt – he has a best friend to look after. “Surely it can wait until the spring.”

“Surely it can’t,” his father says lightly. “My decision is final. You’ll set out in three days’ time. No arguments.”

Linhardt purses his lips; his father isn’t looking to see his disgust. “Fine. As you say, sir.” He half-bows, Father waves a hand, and Linhardt is free to go.

Naturally, he goes straight to the guest room.

“Terrible news,” he announces, inadvertently waking Caspar from a nap. He winces internally; he knows the pain. In fairness, Linhardt isn’t exactly used to Caspar being the one sleeping. Caspar blinks at him blearily, and Linhardt decides he may as well spit it out now. “My father  _ insists _ I go do some ridiculous trade negotiations in  _ Varley _ . Varley lost power when Edelgard ascended, so I have no  _ idea _ why we’re still negotiating with them instead of merely telling them what to do, but apparently we are.” He sits heavily in the worn armchair and massages his temples. “So in a few days I’m leaving, and I’ll be spending a  _ month _ negotiating with that awful man. Saints, I can already feel a headache coming on.”

Caspar frowns at him, processing. “Varley, you said?” he says at last.

Linhardt sighs. “That’s right. I’ve only met Count Varley in passing, but he is so  _ unbelievably _ stubborn–”

“This is great!” Caspar declares. Linhardt squints at him, baffled. “Varley territory is way closer to Garreg Mach than Hevring. It’ll be a breeze!”

Linhardt sighs, exasperated. For some reason, he thought Caspar would have given up on that inane scheme by now. “Caspar, how do you expect to get to Varley, exactly?”

Caspar rolls his eyes and gives him a look to convey  _ uh, duh _ . “I’m coming with you, obviously. You’re my nurse.” He bats his eyelashes, and Linhardt suppresses an eye roll of his own.

“And  _ how _ do you plan to accomplish that? We have guards all over the grounds. You can’t make yourself comfortable in my coach and be done with it.”

Caspar frowns at him. “Well, yeah, but… I can figure something out!” Linhardt raises an eyebrow. “Come on, Lin,” he whines. “I’m trying my best, here!”

Linhardt remains impassive for a long moment, but who is he kidding? He’s come this far. He sighs. “I can try to think something up.”

Caspar lights up brilliantly. “Really? That’s perfect! You’re the smartest person I know – if you can’t figure this out, nobody can!”

“Almost as though you put me in an impossible situation,” he mutters, but his mind is already churning with possibilities. “To be clear, the scenario you’re proposing involves you traveling with me and then escaping when we arrive at Varley?”

Caspar shrugs. “Yeah, more or less. I mean, I need more time to get better anyway, right? Hopefully by the time we get there, I’ll be my old self again!” He pumps his fist, determined, and Linhardt shakes his head to fight off the fondness that familiar action stirs in him. There’s simply no time for that now.

“It may be our only option,” he muses, reluctantly. “I have no choice but to go to Varley, and without me watching over you, you may be discovered. If you come along…”

“You can keep an eye on me to make sure I’m healing!” he asserts. “Come on, you know you want me as a traveling companion. I’m a great conversationalist.”

Linhardt rolls his eyes. “And a strong fighter, and brilliant company, and a trusted confidant, and oh-so-modest, too. I’ve heard it once or twice.” Caspar sticks his tongue out at him, and Linhardt snorts. “I only hope you can be a model patient, while we’re at it.”

Caspar lights up. “So…”

Linhardt sighs. “So, yes. I’ll start brainstorming ways to sneak you out with me.”

Caspar cheers. “Nice, Linhardt! You’re gonna do great. You’re the best at planning.”

“Someone has to be,” he mutters, embarrassed, but the comment doesn’t sound quite as biting as he’d intended. Alas. “This is going to be a disaster. You do realize that, don’t you?”

Caspar waves a hand. “Nah, no way. As long as you and I are together, we’re unstoppable.” He beams at Linhardt. “Right?”

There was… certainly a time when that was true. Now, though, Linhardt isn’t so sure. Caspar’s different, that much is instantly apparent; Linhardt isn’t sure he can keep up. He gives himself a mental shake. They don’t have to be a honed team – the situation has changed, and such synergy is hardly necessary. They just need to get Caspar out of Hevring with his life. “Right,” he agrees. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

Caspar smiles tiredly. “Good. That’s my Lin.”

Linhardt’s stomach flips.  _ My Lin _ . How… preposterous. “You should rest,” he says briskly. “You’re obviously worn out, and I don’t need your input to come up with a plan.”

Caspar’s smile softens. “Okay, Linny,” he says; he sounds half-asleep already. “That’s good. Night.”

“Good night,” Linhardt says. For a long moment, he doesn’t go to work or to scheming. He watches the peaceful rise and fall of Caspar’s chest, at least until his deep breathing grows into snores, and wonders quietly how he feels so at ease here, in the heart of enemy territory. Perhaps, he thinks, being in this place so familiar to their childhood makes Caspar let his guard down. Maybe… maybe Linhardt does that. Maybe Caspar, after everything, still trusts Linhardt to look after him.

Preposterous.

But Linhardt will, of course. He’ll ensure Caspar is safe, for as long as he remains in his care. It doesn’t matter if Caspar believes in him – in fact, if he were wise, he wouldn’t. And Linhardt would prove him wrong. If he truly doesn’t have faith in him, Linhardt has every intention of proving Caspar wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll see you tomorrow for the next chapter!


	2. i never wanna let you go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very boring, uneventful travel montage. Probably skippable tbh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here's chapter 2! thanks for your comments on chapter 1 uwu

“ _ Really _ ,” Linhardt huffs, “that won’t be necessary.”

They’re finally setting out for Varley today, and Linhardt’s already in a bad mood. For one thing, because he had to awaken at an  _ ungoddessly _ hour to get on the road. For another, because his father won’t let him just  _ leave _ .

“We have the troops to spare,” his father says stubbornly. Linhardt doesn’t bother looking at him, instead watching carefully as his baggage is loaded onto the carriage. “Just take a few knights to accompany you on your journey.”

“I told you,” Linhardt says, annoyed, “it’s a waste.” It’s not a dangerous journey in the slightest, considering they’re traveling through the heart of the Empire. Linhardt couldn’t get further from the frontlines if he  _ tried _ – and he’s spent a good deal of time doing precisely that. “The Hevring troops are spread thinly enough with so many off at war, and more travelers means more money spent on food and beds.” He looks at his father – he knows he’s made solid points, because they’re  _ practical _ ones. “I’m not in any danger from enemy soldiers, so why waste the resources?”

There’s an air about Father that says he’s about to give in: his shoulders begin to slump incrementally out of his perfect posture, and he’s getting that tired look in his eyes that Linhardt tends to inspire in people if he talks to them for too long. “There may not be any Alliance soldiers, but there could still be unsavory characters about,” he protests weakly. Linhardt admires his tenacity, if quite literally nothing else. He wonders, briefly, if he’s heard reports about Caspar’s daring escape. Goddess willing, he hasn’t, and suspects nothing. After all, once they’re out of Hevring, they’re in the clear – Caspar can scamper off into the woods to do good deeds or whatever it is he does, and Linhardt can spend a miserable month negotiating with the most spiteful man he’s ever had the displeasure of dealing with.

“If I encounter any  _ unsavory characters _ ,” he says drily, “I am more than equipped to handle them myself. I did attend military school, after all, and of course I studied hard to bring honor to the Hevring name.” He’s sure he’s only giving his father ammunition, that as soon as he returns home his military education will be dragged forth as another reason he should go to war, but he’s far too tired to care at the moment. Father narrows his eyes at him, but Linhardt ignores him, instead watching with rapt attention as two servants heft an oversized trunk into the carriage. Books, he’ll claim if questioned, for reading during the long journey. A fair enough excuse, one his father most certainly would have no reason to question. One of the men fumbles and drops an end of the trunk against the mounting step, and Linhardt winces internally.

“Watch your tone,” Father is saying, dully. “Count Varley–”

“ _ Former _ Count Varley.”

“He still holds a good deal of clout, child,” he says sharply. “Take care not to let your attitude show during negotiations. He does  _ not _ appreciate disrespect.”

Linhardt rolls his eyes, effectively proving his father right to be concerned about his manners. “Yes, yes, of course. I’ll be on my best behavior.” The trunk is safely settled in the carriage, and Linhardt turns back to his father, arms crossed. “Well, then. Seems I’m all prepared. Permission to take my leave, Your Excellency?” he drawls.

Father frowns at him, but ultimately opts out of a reprimand. “Write me daily regarding your progress.” Such a waste of perfectly good paper. “Do not embarrass the Hevring family. Understand?”

Linhardt sighs. “Yes, Father, I understand.”

He nods curtly, and without another word he turns and walks back into the manor. Such a warm farewell from his doting father. Likely, he thinks sourly, he has some pressing  _ paperwork _ that Linhardt’s interrupting.

No matter. He climbs into the carriage, settling into his seat as comfortably as he can, and off they go.

Hevring Manor has barely begun to disappear between the trees when Linhardt nudges the trunk with his foot. “Alright, get out of there,” he says, an unintentional bite to his voice. “We’re far enough away that I doubt we’ll be harassed now.”

There’s a few soft  _ thump _ s, a muttered curse, and then the trunk swings open, Caspar rising up with it and gasping for breath. “That,” he declares, “is a small space. Is that seriously the biggest chest you could’ve found?”

Linhardt glowers at him, but he lends a hand as Caspar awkwardly climbs out, sliding onto the seat opposite him. “Apologies, I sadly just trashed my human-sized trunk a few months ago,” he snarls. Caspar frowns at him, and Linhardt averts his gaze, staring stubbornly out the tiny window.

“Sounded like your father was giving you a hard time out there,” Caspar says, with that tone he has that’s trying to be casual and conversational and failing miserably. Damn him and his supernatural ability to read emotions – Linhardt would kill for an ability like it. “You think he’s onto us?”

Linhardt snorts derisively. “Please. No. He’d have to pay a second of attention to what I’m doing to suspect anything.”

He feels Caspar’s gaze on him, searching. Any moment now, he’ll stumble blindly into a conversation Linhardt doesn’t want to have and Caspar doesn’t know how to navigate. Like clockwork.

Except he doesn’t. “Good!” Caspar says, with forced cheeriness. “Then we’re home-free, right? I just stick with you until I’m better, and then I can head off the Garreg Mach in time for the Millennium Festival.”

Linhardt had forgotten, somehow, about how obnoxious of a morning person Caspar is. Meanwhile, he’s in the sort of mood where just hearing another person’s voice is grating enough nearly to be headache-inducing. “There isn’t going to  _ be _ a Millennium Festival, Caspar,” he grouses, as if Caspar needs the reminder, “because the archbishop is dead, the Church is in shambles, and even if those two things weren’t true, the entire continent is  _ at war _ .”

Caspar laughs. “Oh, you’d be surprised! Even during wartime, people are still people, right?” He sighs, almost dreamily, and Linhardt glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “When I was in the Kingdom – y’know, back when it  _ was _ the Kingdom – they went all  _ out _ for Macuil Day. Banners, festival stalls, pastries, singing, the whole bit. And the Alliance…” He’s getting this fond, faraway smile on his face as he speaks; Linhardt can’t help but be absorbed as he begins to tell his stories. “Man, going through there during Garland Moon was really something. They’ve got such pretty flowers in the Alliance, too. And so many of them, you wouldn’t even know most of the young people were at war.”

Caspar has this incredible way of speaking about the people and the places he’s seen on his travels, a way of making them sound infinitely interesting and beautiful and somehow peaceful, even in the midst of utter chaos. And he has such an eye for detail – he describes the sights he’d seen with descriptors Linhardt would never have thought to notice. He settles in and listens as Caspar regales him with tale after tale of, in his words, people being people. Linhardt never thought he liked people much, personally, but to hear Caspar tell it, he could possibly enjoy – fine, he’ll admit it,  _ love _ – the tedium of travel and talking to strangers. The way Caspar puts it, it actually sounds  _ interesting _ . A pit opens in Linhardt’s stomach – he could have been there, for everything. He could have shared these experiences with Caspar.

Or he could’ve caught an imperial soldier’s lance in the gut and died before turning 18. Choices, he reminds himself. He’d made the wise decision. He still can’t shake off the fantasy, though, not enough to stop himself from saying, almost wistfully, “That does sound interesting, I suppose.”

Caspar beams, delighted. “Doesn’t it? I mean, sure, there was fighting in between. I’d help people chase imperials out of their towns or dodge the soldiers trying to make ‘em enlist. But I also just got to  _ live _ with them.” He sighs, looking out the window with a small smile on his face, clearly a thousand miles away. “And yeah, I had to keep moving, but it was always nice to see a new place. And even nicer when I got to go back someplace I’d already been.”

Linhardt hums thoughtfully. “It does sound like it could be... nice,” he says carefully – not too invested in the idea, but not brushing him off, either. At least, that’s what he’s aiming for.

Caspar, predictably, sees right through him, looking at him with a gleam in his eyes. “Lin, I just got the  _ best _ idea.” Linhardt opens his mouth to protest, but already Caspar’s barrelling ahead at top speed. “You could come with me! There’s a lot of world to see, and I’ve only seen teeny baby parts of it!” Between his smile and the gleam in his eyes, Caspar looks so honest to goodness  _ luminous _ that Linhardt nearly caves on the spot, if only to have Caspar’s light continuing to chase away the gloom that clings to him like a leech. “You could come, too–”

“No,” Linhardt says, his common sense thankfully catching up to him. “Because as nice as you made it sound, you aren’t going back to… to vagrancy.” Caspar furrows his brow, but it’s Linhardt’s turn to push past his arguments and complaints with cold, difficult  _ logic _ . “You’re going back to picking fights and putting yourself in danger and risking your life against a nation that wants you dead. And I refuse to do that.”

Caspar, naturally, already has a rebuttal. “I could protect you,” he says earnestly. He’s smiling at Linhardt, but it isn’t his usual ear-to-ear grin. It’s softer, shier, smaller.  _ Cute _ , his terrible, traitorous mind supplies. “It’d be great – really, really great. The two of us, back together again!”

It’s a heartbreakingly sweet image, and it’s one Linhardt knows can never be reality. “It’s not that simple, Caspar,” he says, weary. “I can’t do that.” He’d had his brush with war five years ago, and his nightmares are still haunted by blood and smoke and rubble and two-headed eagles. He can’t do it again – never, ever again. It could break him.

“Why not?” Caspar continues, his bull-headedness apparently overriding his ability to read the room. “You  _ hate _ working, you never wanted to inherit – if we go together, you’d be free from all that!” He peers at Linhardt, his brow knotting, and his voice drops quiet as he says, “You… you could be happy.”

Oh, how his heart  _ aches _ . He buries the feeling deep, deep down, beneath the certainty that he’d made the right choice staying in the Empire and that he’s making the right choice now. He looks down at his lap to avoid eye contact, his tone firm as he says, “Caspar. No.”

“But you promised.”

Linhardt looks up at him sharply, heart suddenly racing; Caspar is staring out the window, brow furrowed. “I–”

“We promised we’d stay together no matter what. Remember?” Linhardt watches him silently, speechless. Of course he remembers – they’d been eight, and Caspar had wanted to seal the pact with blood. They’d taken turns bringing it up for years afterwards to goad the other into doing them favors, right up until the Empire’s attack on Garreg Mach. Caspar looks back at him with a rueful smile, his voice quiet and subdued. “Sorry, I’m just… thinking. It feels like so much has changed.”

“It has,” Linhardt says softly. More than Caspar probably realizes. He isn’t an innocent child anymore; there’s blood on his hands, and to this day he can’t wash it away.

“Yeah! I guess it has, huh?” Caspar laughs quietly, humorlessly. “I kinda hate that you grew up without me, Lin.”

Linhardt blinks at him owlishly. Him?  _ Grown up _ ? He may as well have spent the past five years sitting in an empty room eating dried Morfis plums. Caspar’s the one who’d grown, physically and otherwise – he’s confident and self-assured in ways that he just didn’t use to be. He no longer acts like he has anything to prove. All he can say is, “The feeling’s mutual.”

Caspar laughs again. “Yeah, you’re definitely not the person I left at Garreg Mach.” Linhardt flinches; Caspar frowns at him. “It’s not a bad thing. You’re still  _ you _ . But you’re different. That’s okay. I still…” He glances down at his hands in his lap, biting his lip; Linhardt watches him like a hawk, paying more attention to him than he has to anyone else ever in his life. “I still really care about you,” he finishes. “And you’re still my best friend and you always will be, so don’t even  _ try _ to get rid of me, got it?”

Linhardt offers him a little smile, his traitorous heart hammering away in his throat. “I couldn’t if I tried.”

Caspar grins. “Now you’re getting it.” He sighs, leaning back into his seat, and Linhardt frowns at him – he looks pained.

“You should rest,” he says. “We’ve a long journey ahead of us, and you need to be better by the end of it.”

Caspar smiles weakly at him. It simply couldn’t be more obvious how tired he is. “Aw, c’mon. I’m fine! Little cold and a swollen ankle couldn’t keep me down.”

“Sprained. And yes, they could. When your body is sick or injured, it needs rest to recover.” He narrows his eyes. “You are both sick  _ and _ injured. I’m sure you can imagine how much sleep that requires.”

Caspar scoffs. “Oh, please, Lin. I’m sitting in a carriage all day!” He gestures broadly to the carriage around them, as if to say  _ look, see, carriage _ . “Hard to get more rest than that.”

“Except for  _ sleep _ .” Linhardt sighs heavily; he needs a better way of getting through to him. “Let me put it this way: when you’re… training… you start with a warm-up, then do your actual… drills.” He pauses for confirmation, since it’s been a good while since he’s heard anyone talk about training. Caspar nods encouragingly, paying careful attention; with a sigh, Linhardt continues. “Imagine you used up all your energy in the warm-up, though. You’d underperform in training, if you’d even have the strength to perform at all. Right? So think of moving and talking and everything you do as a warm-up your body has to go through before it does the actual work – the healing. Understand?”

Caspar barks a laugh. “Lin, that is the  _ craziest _ metaphor you have ever used.”

Linhardt narrows his eyes at him. “It was really more of an analogy,” he mutters. Caspar laughs harder at that, shaking his head.

“I mean, I get it. Save my strength so I can be at my best later, right?” Linhardt sighs, nodding – it’s close enough. “Okay then. You’re in charge.” Caspar grins at him, blindingly, and settles in more comfortably. “I’ll try to rest, okay?”

“Thank you,” Linhardt says, relieved, both that Caspar’s actually listening to him and that he won’t have to have any more serious conversations. He watches Caspar doze off, then pulls out one of the books he actually  _ had _ brought with him to keep himself entertained.

* * *

They’re three days into their journey and making a good pace when their carriage comes to an abrupt halt. Caspar stirs slightly from his nap – apparently, he’d taken Linhardt’s advice to heart, and travel had caused his health to decline – but Linhardt gestures for him to stay put as he moves toward the door. He hears scuffling footsteps in the dirt outside, and then muffled voices.

“Lin?” Caspar whispers, eyes going wide as he comes to.

“Hush,” Linhardt says sharply, getting to his feet. Caspar sits up, and Linhardt makes a sharp  _ stay-put _ gesture, his eyes narrowed.

“Don’t go out there by  _ yourself _ ,” Caspar whispers – far, far too loudly, if anyone wanted to ask Linhardt what  _ he _ thinks. “Come on–”

“You are both recovering from an injury and  _ wanted by the state _ ,” Linhardt hisses. Worse, he looks  _ terrible _ – if there’s trouble, he’s in no state to deal with it. “Stay.  _ Put _ .” Before Caspar can argue, he yanks the carriage door open.

This is a mistake.

There’s a-well, Linhardt doesn’t know what word would be most accurate to describe her. A person with a weapon and worn-down clothes who is now pivoting to Linhardt and pointing her weapon at him and that’s how he realizes he’s being robbed.

“Boss!” the bandit calls, and two more thieves come around from the front of the carriage. Three. Okay. Maybe he can handle three – he remembers  _ some _ Reason, even all this time later. And maybe the driver can be of use.  _ Unless he’s already dead _ . 

“Your Worshipfulness.” The leader, presumably, sneers at him. “Look, this can be  _ real _ easy for you. Just hand over your valuables, and you can be right on your way.”

Linhardt swallows heavily, taking a half-step back and bumping into the carriage. The carriage where Caspar is, hopefully, unconscious, and thus unable to put himself in harm’s way. It occurs to him, suddenly, that there is  _ more _ than likely a bounty on his head, a bounty these lowlifes would be all too happy to collect, and that’s what pushes him into action.

Spellcasting returns to him like muscle memory, a second skin he pulls on as easily as a bathrobe. He doesn’t have to say a word for Bolganone to flare up beneath the bandits’ feet, giving him more space to smack them back with Wind. It’s  _ incredibly _ draining – how had he done this, over and over, back in school? In  _ addition _ to classes? His sluggishness nearly ruins him, as he just barely dodges an arrow one of the thieves sends whizzing his way. Screwing his face up in concentration, he blasts Cutting Gale at the archer, sending her to her knees, only to be forced to dodge a swing from the intrepid bandit who’d first confronted him. His chest heaves as he realizes he’s  _ desperately _ out of shape.

Still, though, magic runs through his veins, and now that he’s started using it it’s hot and electric. Or maybe that’s adrenaline. Regardless, he growls softly and hits the swordswoman point-blank with another Wind spell, which is enough to knock her to the ground. She hits her head on the way down with a  _ crack _ , and Linhardt forces himself not to consider he may have just  _ killed _ her – she’s incapacitated, and that’s what matters. He turns to the leader, who’d apparently decided to sit back and let his goons take the hits for him.  _ Disgusting _ . 

Before Linhardt can attack – there’s another Bolganone at his fingertips – someone sweeps his legs out from under him. Time seems to slow as he falls – he’d miscalculated. Clearly, there were more than three of them, which probably explains why the driver has been so  _ useless _ –

His head wacks the side of the carriage. He’s dizzy and disoriented and squinting up at a huge axeman, who snarls down at him, “Shoulda picked the easy way,” as he raises his axe.

Linhardt screws his eyes shut – he doesn’t want to see, and besides, the sunlight  _ hurts _ – and throws his hand out. His prepared Bolganone sears out at the bandit, the heat sweltering against Linhardt’s fingertips. He has no idea if it’s working – his eyes are still shut against the light, the heat – but he swings his arm in an arc, anyway, hoping to successfully spread the fire around him and drive the axeman back. When he peeks his eyes open, there’s a ring of fire around him, but the flames are dying, and the axeman may have been temporarily caught off-guard but he’s coming back with a vengeance, now, and Linhardt’s still on the ground and too dazed to remedy that situation, and the bandit raises his axe and it gleams in the light of fire and sun–

And then he’s falling back, screaming in pain and clutching at his face. His  _ burnt _ face. Linhardt frowns, blinking. Had he done that? Another fireball blasts at him; this one hits him squarely in the chest, and he lets out a choked sound and drops to the ground. That one  _ definitely _ wasn’t Linhardt – he spins his head, as quickly as he can without making the entire world spin with it, and there’s Caspar, teeth gritted, eyes glinting cold as steel, every muscle trembling with effort, one hand gripping the doorframe so hard his knuckles are white and the other outstretched and blazing with Fire.

“Get. Away,” he growls, his voice tight. Linhardt looks back at the thieves to find them hastening to make their retreat – the archer helps the swordswoman to her feet and disappears into the brush; their leader looks  _ frightened _ , and he, too, takes off. The only one who remains is the axeman, lying charred and motionless on the ground. Linhardt swallows anxiously, frozen, until he hears a soft thump behind him. With great difficulty, he clambers to his feet, looking for Caspar. He’s still in the carriage – thank the  _ goddess _ – but he’s fallen to his knees, and his face is sweaty and pale.

“That was  _ incredibly stupid _ ,” Linhardt hisses, pushing past the pain in his head as he rushes over to Caspar and helps him back into his seat.

“You’re welcome,” Caspar slurs, breathing heavily.

Linhardt doesn’t have time to deal with him; he hurries around to the front of the carriage, relieved to find the horses unscathed and the driver merely knocked unconscious. He Heals him, waving off his profuse apologies, and instructs him to keep moving. They’ll just have to stop in the next town to recoup.

Finally, finally, Linhardt returns to his own seat, wincing as his adrenaline wears off and the  _ ache _ in his head returns at full force. He closes his eyes, gently prodding at the solid lump on the back of his head. Just  _ wonderful _ . His fingertips are mildly burnt, too, from his sloppy Bolganone. The carriage clatters back into motion; he winces at the sound and the sudden movement, both sending his head spinning. When he finally feels less nauseous, he blinks his eyes open, only to find Caspar, alert, looking at him.

“Are you alright?” he asks, brow furrowed in concern. Linhardt notes that his voice sounds significantly less ragged, and takes that as a success. There’s one, anyway.

“Fine,” he says simply, bringing his hand back to his lap. Touching his head wound isn’t going to make it go away. Obviously. “Just hurt my head.”

Caspar’s expression goes stormy. “You mean those  _ thieves _ did.”

“Well, yes, obviously,” he snaps, promptly wincing and putting a hand to his throbbing head.

Caspar softens a bit, kindly lowering his voice. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he worries. “I can–”

“You can rest,” Linhardt says, too tired to force any firmness into his voice. “As I told you to. We’re stopping in the next town, and I’m sure they’ll have a healer or a physician or–” He waves a hand. “Whatever. Someone to look at my head.”

Caspar hums dubiously. “I guess.” There’s a few moments of blessed silence; Linhardt leans back in his seat and closes his eyes, and he fully expects Caspar to fall back unconscious after his exertions, but he pipes up again. “Um, but are you, y’know.  _ Okay _ ? Like, uh–” Linhardt opens one eye to squint at him, unimpressed, “–y’know,  _ emotionally _ speaking? ‘Cause that was, uh, a lot.”

Linhardt blinks at him, surprised. He doesn’t know why – Caspar is consistently, remarkably good at reading people. He always has been. He’s  _ especially _ good at reading Linhardt, which is why they even became friends in the first place. No one else knows him the way Caspar does, not so effortlessly. At length, he says, honestly, “I wasn’t planning on seeing anyone die today. I can certainly say that.”

Caspar flinches. “Yeah. Uh, sorry. I didn’t mean to… but then he was…”

Linhardt holds up a hand to stop him. “Caspar, it’s fine. I can’t complain, really. You saved my life.” He frowns, suddenly realizing something. “Where  _ did _ you learn to do that? Fire, I mean.”

“Oh!” Caspar looks sheepish, and he blushes. He may be older now, more grizzled and mature, but the expression is so terribly nostalgic that Linhardt’s heart  _ twists _ , thinking of round cheeks and pink splashed across his nose. “I, uh. Okay, remember how the professor wanted me to learn magic? To be a war monk?” He does; he nods. “Uh, yeah. I was… pretty terrible at it, right? I mean, you know. You’re the one who tried to teach me.”

“I remember,” Linhardt says quietly. After Caspar had begged and pleaded and badgered Linhardt for help, they’d spent a month trying every trick Linhardt could think of to teach him the basics of Faith and Reason; eventually, the professor had stared at Caspar’s test grades, unimpressed, and told him to go back to his areas of expertise. That had been the end of that.

“Well, yeah! I guess… once I was on my own…” Caspar swallows, looking down at his lap, his fingers twisting together. “I needed to learn to do everything I could. I couldn’t count on any help, y’know?”

“I know,” Linhardt says, trying to push down his own guilt. Choices. He made his, and it’s kept him alive, and he has to live with it. Still – they were a team, and they worked together. Close-up frontliner, and distance mage. Caspar’s learned to compensate where Linhardt still flounders.

“So I learned magic. Most people aren’t expecting it, right? Not from a bonehead like me.” Caspar laughs humorlessly; there’s an awkward moment of quiet before he continues. “‘Sides, if I wanted to run around helping people I had to actually  _ help _ them, right? And besides fighting for their safety, I figured the best thing to do was heal them. Make ‘em feel better, y’know? So…” He laughs, awkward this time, pink rising in his cheeks. “I mean, that’s what you would’ve done, right? If you were there.”

Linhardt watches him for a few moments. It hurts, in a way he’s been trying to avoid for years now.  _ If you were there _ . Caspar learning magic was about filling a hole Linhardt left in his life. Obviously, but it still stings. “Right,” he mutters. He’s trying not to wonder how Caspar finally coaxed a flame from his fingertips, if he’d worked long and hard at one of Linhardt’s strategies or made his own way. “Well. I suppose I should be glad you learned, shouldn’t I? Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here now.”

Caspar looks up at him, eyes wide, smiling hesitantly. “I mean. I’m not  _ nearly _ as good as you.”

“No,” Linhardt agrees mildly. Familiar banter is so much easier than addressing the dark cloud hanging over them. Hanging over  _ him _ , anyway; Caspar probably isn’t even bothered. “Your form is abysmal, and your control is nonexistent.” Caspar scowls at him. “ _ But _ ,” he concedes, “you have potential. More than I would have expected.”

Caspar beams, and suddenly they’re students again, and he’s just grasped a concept Linhardt’s been trying to explain to him for days. “You really think so? Thanks, Lin. That means a lot. So does that mean you’ll let me Heal you?” Caspar sits up, reaching out toward him, only to wince and fall heavily against his seat.

“Absolutely not,” Linhardt says firmly, because  _ obviously _ . “Not when you’re already exhausted. Get some rest, Caspar. I’ll awaken you when we get there.”

Caspar huffs softly. “What happened to the Linhardt I know? Shouldn’t  _ you _ be getting some rest, too?”

Linhardt can’t help but smile softly. He can appreciate familiarity; it makes him feel less like he missed everything. “Don’t you worry about me,” he says. “ _ Sleep _ , Caspar. Nothing else is going to happen.”

Caspar studies him for a moment, eyes narrowed, before he sighs and settles back in. “Fine,” he grumbles. “But you better–”

Linhardt waves a hand. “Yes, yes, I won’t let you miss any excitement,” he promises.

“Not what I was gonna say,” Caspar says, smiling a funny little smile. It’s… amused, but with an underlying softness to it.  _ Fondness _ , even. How very swoon-worthy. “You better take it easy, too, okay, Lin? You’ve gone through a lot today, too.”

Linhardt sucks in a deep breath. “What happened to the Caspar I know?” he teases quietly. It’s all he knows to say – somehow Caspar’s genuine concern knocks his feet out from under him. “I thought sleeping was a waste of my time, when I could be training or tutoring you or–”

Caspar laughs sheepishly. “Okay, I get it! I was a super annoying teenager.” He cocks his head, still with that funny little grin. “Can’t I have changed at all since then? Y’know, matured? Grown?” 

Linhardt hums. He’s all too aware of Caspar’s changes. “I suppose so,” he murmurs, looking down at his hands. “Fine. I’ll try to get some rest, too. Now will you sleep before I have to knock you out?”

Caspar laughs. “I’d like to see you try!” Still, he obligingly makes himself comfortable in his seat, letting out a soft sigh. “Okay, Lin. Night.”

Linhardt restrains himself from making a sarcastic comment about how it’s still midday. Instead, he murmurs, “Sleep well, Caspar.”

He waits until Caspar’s breaths level out into an even rhythm before he allows himself to drift off, too.

* * *

“Two beds, please,” Linhardt says. The innkeep nods and goes looking for a room key. Linhardt glances at Caspar, who’s bundled up in a thick cloak to be less recognizable; he looks  _ better _ that he had at the start of their journey, yes, but still, Linhardt thinks, he may not be  _ quite _ in the best shape to go running off as soon as they make it to Varley.

They’ll just have to jump off that bridge when they get to it.

“Here, ser,” the innkeep says, handing over a room key. “Enjoy your stay.”

Linhardt nods, ushering Caspar toward the stairs. As they go up, he catches a glimpse of a girl wiping down a table – young, dark-haired, fixing him with a cold glare. He frowns, hurrying upstairs as quickly as possible so they can lock themselves in their room for the night.

“I think I’m gonna take a bath,” Caspar says, shrugging off his heavy cloak as Linhardt carefully locks the door behind him. The past week of travel has left him stronger; Linhardt’s just relieved he’s well enough to take care of bathing.

“That’s fine,” he says, waving a hand lazily. “I have to write my father, anyway.”

Linhardt sits at the desk as Caspar ducks into the washroom. His letters to Father never take long, but then, neither do Caspar’s baths. He’s almost finished when he hears a faint scratching sound – he frowns. It’s not from the bathroom, but from the hallway.

He doesn’t turn toward the door, but he does start prepping a Wind spell, just in case, and he strains his ear. Sure enough, he hears the quiet  _ click _ of the lock, the soft sound of footsteps entering the room and approaching closer and closer–

Linhardt spins abruptly, Wind glowing to life in his hand, only to see the girl from downstairs, apparently unarmed. She bares her teeth at him, snarling, then lunges at him with a cry. Linhardt releases his Wind, pushing her off-course and letting him duck around her. At the very least, he’s no longer up against the wall. The girl pushes off the wall to lunge at him again; this time, Linhardt is too slow to dodge, and she manages to get him in a headlock. Linhardt’s calling forth a Fire spell when the bathroom door swings open, revealing a wide-eyed, half-dressed Caspar. “Lin–” He breaks off, staring owlishly at his assailant. “Wait.  _ Isolde _ ? Is that you?”

“Captain!” The girl loosens her grip on Linhardt, enough for him to slip out of her grasp. “Dammit–” She readies her fists, ready to strike, when–

“Stop!” Caspar cries. The girl – Isolde – looks to him, and Linhardt calls Fire to his fingertips. “ _ Lin _ ! You too! Both of you, just–” Linhardt frowns, distrustful, but he waves the spell away when he sees the pained look on Caspar’s face.

“Sit down,” he says, going over to help him. Caspar leans heavily on him as they walk over to the bed and Linhardt eases him down. “Okay?”

“I’m fine,” Caspar mutters, shrugging him off. Linhardt raises an eyebrow. Is he  _ embarrassed _ ? Honestly.

“Captain,” Isolde pipes up again. She’s right where Linhardt left her, frowning at them. “You’re hurt.”

Caspar waves off her concern. “I’m fine-but, wait, what are you  _ doing _ here? And why are you attacking Linhardt?”

Isolde huffs, crossing her arms. “I’m here because I thought  _ you _ might be here! We’ve been looking for you all over the country, ever since you got captured back in Ochs, and people have been seeing you in inns and we tried to figure out where you were–”

“What people?” Linhardt asks. Isolde looks at him with a glare. “And who  _ are _ you, exactly?”

Caspar pats his hand reassuringly. “It’s okay, Lin,” he says. “This is Isolde! I met her while I was traveling.”

Isolde looks at Caspar adoringly, and Linhardt’s stomach twists with discomfort. “That’s  _ far _ from the whole story. Captain von Bergliez,” she says seriously (Linhardt glances at Caspar with a raised eyebrow –  _ Captain? _ – and he shrugs sheepishly), “has inspired a massive underground resistance movement. People who oppose the war, oppose the nobility, oppose the emperor – we all work together, to help one another, to help the people who fight for our freedom and our  _ safety _ –”

“Wonderful,” Linhardt says, growing bored of the soapbox. Isolde snaps her mouth shut and glares at him. “So you’ve been stalking us this entire time.”

“I’ve been  _ trying _ ,” she grits out, “to save the captain from his captors, aka  _ you _ .”

“I’m really not a captain,” Caspar butts in. “It’s not exactly an organized thing. And, um, I wasn’t really trying to start a thing at all? So.”

“Well, congratulations,” Linhardt drawls, ignoring him. “I’m not his captor, I’m trying to get him to safety. And if our little tussle was overheard, we might have a problem when people realize I’m harboring a wanted criminal, so well done.”

Isolde bristles. “If you don’t want to be caught harboring him, why don’t you let him  _ leave _ ?”

“Guys,” Caspar says, tired, “c’mon.”

“I would let him do whatever he wants,” Linhardt grits out, “but he’s not well, so I’m looking after him.”

“ _ Lin _ .” Caspar takes his hand, finally forcing Linhardt to look at him. Caspar frowns up at him. “Relax. We can talk this out, right?”

Linhardt looks over at Isolde, who has her hands propped on her chest and looks severely unimpressed. Have teenagers  _ always _ been this stubborn? Ah, he looks rather pathetic for fighting a child, isn’t he? Finally, he sighs. “Yes, yes,” he says. “I suppose so.” Caspar beams and gives his hand a squeeze. So. Linhardt supposes that’s that.

“Captain,” Isolde says. Linhardt glances over at her; she does seem less… tense, if no less obnoxious. “What’s your plan?”

Caspar nods, serious. “We’re heading to Varley. Once we’re there, I’ll split off and head to Garreg Mach.” Linhardt furrows his brow; he hates that  _ that’s _ still his best plan. “Linhardt will go back to business as usual-um, he’s a noble. From Hevring. He’s… not really involved in any of this.” He glances up at Linhardt for confirmation; Linhardt’s face twists in a frown, but he nods curtly. Why should he be upset? He doesn’t  _ want _ to be involved. He doesn’t need to play hero with a bunch of stubborn children like Isolde.

Isolde looks to him, unimpressed. “What, that’s it? I thought you were supposed to be a medic.”

Linhardt frowns at her. “I am–”

“So,” Isolde says, crossing her arms over her chest, “you should  _ know _ he’s not gonna be better by the time you get to Varley. The estate is a few days away.”

“What’re you talking about?” Caspar asks. “I’m doing fine!”

Linhardt sighs. The truth is, she’s right. Even traveling by carriage isn’t especially kind on the healing process; Caspar needs more time to recover, and that’s time they don’t have. “She’s right,” he says, reluctantly. “You won’t be in any shape for travel in a few days’ time.”

Caspar frowns. “But… what do we do when we get to Varley? That place is swimming in imperial soldiers! I can’t exactly hide out there.”

“Don’t worry, Captain,” Isolde pipes up, smiling smugly at Linhardt. “We’ve already figured a safe spot for you to lie low.”

“Absolutely not.” Isolde glares at him, but he soldiers on. “Caspar is my patient. I’ll be taking care of him until he’s better.”

“From inside Varley Estate?” she asks, dubiously. “Where exactly is he gonna stay?”

“With Bernie.” Linhardt looks down at Caspar, surprised at his contribution. “Bernadetta was a Deer, too, right? Even if she’s not all anti-Empire, she’d help out an old friend, don’t you think?”

Linhardt’s brow furrows in thought. “Perhaps… Ah, and knowing her, I bet she’s confined to her room. I’d be amazed if she let  _ anyone _ in.”

“So I can hide out with her!” Caspar finishes, grinning. Linhardt can’t help but smile back, just a slight up-curve of the lips.

“Brilliant idea, Caspar. You’ll be perfectly safe in there. And Isolde–” She scowls at him; he remains unfazed. “Surely your little… merry band can think of some way to smuggle Caspar to her room?”

Isolde holds her stern look for a few moments.  _ If looks could kill _ , Linhardt thinks, drily. At last, she sighs and says, “The daughter, right? I can probably work something out, if that’s  _ really _ the best plan you can come up with. But this seems like a long-shot.”

“It’s the only shot we have,” Caspar says. Linhardt has to say, in this moment, his stubborn adherence to a half-baked plan is actually quite impressive. “You can help me out, right, Isolde?”

Isolde looks between Caspar and Linhardt a few times with a sullen expression. Finally, she says, “Yes, Captain. I’ll come up with something and get in touch with you.”

Caspar beams. “You’re a lifesaver. So we got it all worked out, right?” He looks up at Linhardt hopefully, who shrugs.

“It seems so. So I don’t think we’ll be needing anything more from you, for the moment,” he tells Isolde. She rolls her eyes.

“Right. Fine.  _ I’ll _ go get to work. But you listen to me, Hevring.” She takes a step closer, menacingly. “You’d better take good care of him, understand? He’s an  _ inspiration _ , to a  _ lot _ of people.” Caspar laughs nervously at her intensity. “If anything happens to him,” she says lowly, “it’s on your head.”

Linhardt levels her with an unimpressed look. “Fine,” he says. “That will be all.” Isolde bristles, but Caspar says her name warningly, and she stalks out of the room, pausing in the door to shoot Linhardt one last glare before shutting the door behind her. Linhardt lets out a sigh of relief. “She’s charming,” he grouses.

“She’s enthusiastic,” Caspar says. Linhardt raises an eyebrow, and he laughs. “She means well, really! She’s been through a lot. I don’t think she realized there was anything she could do to punch back until she met me.”

“Yes, well–” Linhardt abruptly realizes they’re still holding hands. And that Caspar is still shirtless. Oh  _ goddess _ . He extracts his hand as casually as he can manage; Caspar doesn’t seem to notice. “You are quite good at punching,” he says flatly. Caspar laughs.

“It’s a gift!” He settles into bed more comfortably, sighing. “I know she’s… a lot. But at least now we have a plan for what happens next.”

Linhardt hums. “I suppose so. Look at you, though, being an  _ inspiration _ .”

Caspar groans. “Look, I didn’t say it. And I  _ definitely _ didn’t tell her to go around calling me captain.” Linhardt raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t! I just helped people, that’s all.”

“Apparently, that’s enough,” Linhardt remarks. “I’m amazed at the rich life you’ve apparently been cultivating.” Caspar pouts at him, and Linhardt raises his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. I’ll avoid mocking you and the teenagers that follow you around like religious zealots.”

Caspar covers his face with his hand. “Most of them aren’t teenagers,” he says, dejected, and Linhardt laughs.

“At least she can help,” he says diplomatically. “That counts for something.” It does – they at least know what comes next. Linhardt can settle for that.

* * *

Varley Manor looms over the carriage as it rolls forward. Linhardt frowns up at it; it’s austere and traditional, with architecture from likely the early 800s, the exterior unrenovated. It looks cold, he thinks; from what he knows of the former Count Varley, that’s rather fitting.

He steps out of the carriage to find a small group of guardsmen awaiting him, with none of the Varleys anywhere to be seen. Their leader steps forward, dipping his head respectfully. He’s roughly a few centimeters shorter than Linhardt, though probably a decade older, with steely eyes and a lined face. “Lord Linhardt von Hevring, I presume?” he asks, his voice smooth and polite. Linhardt nods and waves for him to relax; he straightens up, but his posture remains rigid. “My name is Major Ernst Bruckner. My duty is to ensure the… security of House Varley.” Ah, so he’s in charge of surveillance and intimidation. “Rest assured, as long as you are within the Manor’s walls, my men and I will watch vigilantly for any danger.”

Linhardt barely refrains from rolling his eyes. “Wonderful,” he drawls. “Much appreciated.”

Bruckner smiles tightly. “Shall I escort you to your suite?”

Linhardt trails along beside him, casting one last glance over his shoulder to the carriage, which is already being unloaded by a group of servants. Isolde claimed she would take care of getting Caspar in; he can only hope everything goes smoothly.

The next hour is exceptionally boring. Bruckner leads him to his rooms, then to the great hall, where former Count and Countess Varley greet him and make dull smalltalk. The two are, rather obviously, at each others’ throats; yet another loveless noble marriage, then. Unsurprising. The conversation wanders into polite conversation about Bernadetta, who, apparently, has not been spotted outside her room for at least a year. It’s perfect segue – Linhardt  _ generously _ offers to deliver her dinner in lieu of the servants, given his history with her, and the Varleys accept.

Perfect. Now he at least doesn’t have to suffer dinner with them.

Bernadetta’s bedroom is halfway down a long hallway that dead-ends into a pitifully narrow window. A guard posted at the front end of the hallway points out the room to him. Linhardt shifts the tray of food he’s carrying into the crook of one arm so he can knock.

There’s no reply. Frowning, he knocks again. At last, he calls, “Bernadetta, I brought dinner.”

He hears a squeak, and then rustling, and then the door opens just a crack. He sees a sliver of purple hair and cloudy gray eyes that go wide at the sight of him. “W-wait,” she mumbles, clearly talking to herself. “This can’t be real, right? What would  _ he _ be doing here?”

“Bernadetta,” he says tiredly. She squeals; he resolutely ignores her. “My arms are getting sore. Will you let me in before I drop our dinner all over the floor?”

She ducks behind the door and pulls it open, admitting him. Linhardt glances quickly around the room. Aside from two windows, the walls are lined with bookshelves, which are populated by books, sketches, and embroidery projects; just next to the door is a small desk, covered by loose papers and potted plants; her bed is pushed to one wall, adjacent to a small door – probably the water closet; the opposite wall hosts a fireplace, and in front of it is a large, comfortable-looking chaise. She has a small table off to one side by the fireplace, and he plops the tray down on it before collapsing into one of the two chairs. Only then does Bernadetta shut the door, cautiously, as if moving too quickly will startle him into action. As if he’s getting up. “Your parents are  _ exhausting _ ,” he says, rubbing at his eyes. “I don’t see how you can live with them.”

“U-um. Linhardt?” He cracks open one eye, squinting at her; her fingers twist in her skirt, and her head is angled down so that, despite being taller than him at the moment, she has to peek up at him. “What are you  _ doing _ here?”

Linhardt sits up, waving a hand dismissively. “I have business with your father,” he says, “More importantly – oh, did you grow taller?” Bernadetta’s eyes go wide, and she shrinks as though she’ll get in trouble for gaining a few centimeters. “Oh, you did,” he remarks, and that’s not all. She changed her hair – she apparently actually brushes it now – and her face is narrower, having lost the childlike softness he remembers. “It seems everyone’s grown taller except for me,” he complains.

Bernadetta frowns, cautiously curious. “E-everyone? Who else have you seen? I thought…” She shakes her head, sealing her lips tight; Linhardt assumes she has nothing more to say, so there’s no time like the present to say his piece.

“Yes, that’s what I need to speak with you about,” he says. “You’d help out an old friend, wouldn’t you?”

Bernadetta hesitates for a moment – which is fine, Linhardt hardly minds waiting. It gives him a chance to pluck his serving off the tray and start eating. Finally, Bernadetta’s eyes light up, and she smiles shyly. “Yes,” she says, surprisingly certain, and she strides over to sit down across from him. “Yes, I would. What do you need help with, Linhardt?”

Linhardt nods, satisfied. “Wonderful. I need you to–”

He’s interrupted by a knocking at the door. “Lady Varley?” an unfamiliar voice calls. “I brought fresh linens.”

Bernadetta frowns, but Linhardt says, “Oh, here we are,” and gestures for her to get the door. She scampers to get it, admitting a servant straining to push a laundry cart. Bernadetta closes the door, and Linhardt says, “Alright, get out of there.”

A hand claws its way out from beneath the linen, and Caspar swiftly follows it, gasping for breath. Bernadetta shrieks, then covers her mouth with her hands. “Hey,” Caspar complains, “you think we can stop forcing me into tiny spaces?”

Linhardt rolls his eyes and gets up to help Caspar out of the cart. “Sure,” he drawls. “Just go ahead and stop being an enemy of the state and you can waltz around whenever you please.” Caspar huffs, swatting at Linhardt. “Ow,” he complains.

Bernadetta apparently recovers in this time. “ _ Caspar _ ?” she squeaks. “What are you doing here? Did he say you’re an enemy of the state? Oh, saints–” She threads her fingers into her hair, tugging at it in a way that must hurt her scalp. “Oh, if you get caught here, you’re in so much trouble. Then  _ I’m _ in so much trouble! And you–” She points at Linhardt, who blinks placidly at her. “ _ You’ll _ be in so much trouble, too! I don’t-I can’t–” Her breaths come quick, and she hunches in on herself. Linhardt sighs.

“Your timing could use some work,” he mutters. “I was planning on telling her about this  _ before _ you got here.”

“I thought every second I was out in the open I was at risk of being caught,” Caspar counters, throwing Linhardt’s warning back at him. “Make up your mind already!” He pulls a face, swaying a bit. “Ugh, and help me lie down. How come I  _ still _ feel this bad? I’ve been resting!”

Linhardt sighs, helping Caspar over to chaise and setting him down. “Obviously not enough. That’s why we’re all stuck in this situation to begin with.” The servant, having  _ actually _ changed the linens and likely had quite enough of the three of them, ducks her head in a respectful nod and sees herself out. “Feeling better yet, Bernadetta?” he asks, fighting an oncoming headache.

Bernadetta jerks her head up to look at the two of them, her eyes blazing. “ _ No _ , I’m not feeling better! You-you said you needed help, and I thought, maybe Linhardt’s having romantic troubles–”

“Romantic troubles?” Caspar repeats, eyebrows knitting together.

“-or, or maybe having trouble with his father, or he wants to run away from home–”

“No,” Linhardt interjects, before she can get any further. “All I need is for you to hide Caspar in your room.”

Bernadetta throws her hands up. “That’s  _ all _ ?” she cries, disbelieving.

“It’s really very simple–”

“Lin,” Caspar whispers loudly, “can you pass me a plate?”

Linhardt hands Caspar his plate, continuing, “You don’t allow anyone in your room anyway, right? This is the perfect spot for Caspar to hide. You’re in absolutely no danger of being discovered.”

“But why is he even here?” Bernadetta asks fretfully. “If-if he’s wanted, this is one of the  _ worst _ places to be.”

“I’m here ‘cause Lin’s here,” Caspar says around a mouthful of bread. Linhardt wrinkles in nose in disgust. “His father made him come here.”

“Caspar’s unwell. I’m looking after him until he’s better, and then he’ll be on his way.”

Bernadetta eyes Caspar warily. “And… where will you go? What have you been doing all this time?”

Caspar swallows and grins. “Well, let me tell you…”

Linhardt tunes out Caspar’s storytelling, instead picking at dinner from he and Caspar’s shared plate. It’s many of the tall tales he’d already told Linhardt – rescuing farm animals and chasing off Imperial scouts and making friends and causing trouble. Bernadetta is rapt, hanging on his words as he speaks, and when he goodnaturedly asks what she’s been up to, she’s calmed down enough to be forthcoming. Refusing to take part in the war has meant that, like Linhardt, she’s been trapped at home with her father all this time, hiding in her room to avoid his ire. She hasn’t had much contact with anyone else – “Raphael sent me a few letters, and, um,” she goes faintly pink, “Leonie and I have been in touch, a little” – so her life sounds painfully boring. At least to Linhardt; Bernadetta glows as she describes the painting and sewing and writing she’s gotten done. Hermitage  _ is _ her dream, he supposes.

“Edelgard actually asked me to join the war,” she says softly. “Once in person – at the beginning. I think she’s too busy to come by these days, even if she wanted to. But she keeps asking over letter. It doesn’t make sense to me, though.” Bernadetta frowns. “I thought we were practically done. I mean, isn’t that what you’ve been seeing, Caspar? The Kingdom and the Alliance can’t last for that much longer.” She worries her lip. “It almost seems like she’s expecting something awful to happen.”

Caspar’s eyes gleam with familiar anticipation. “She’s right, ‘cause–”

“Caspar, hush,” Linhardt says sharply. He’s not in the mood to discuss harebrained schemes tonight, not after everything else he’s dealt with today. From Bruckner’s watchful eye to the Varleys’ tiresome prattle, he’s exhausted. “Bernadetta, will you let Caspar stay with you?”

Bernadetta frowns at him, then glances at Caspar. The two share a Look that Linhardt can’t hope to decipher; irritation flares behind his eyes, and he swallows heavily to stop himself from snapping at them. Let them have their little moment, he thinks sourly. He’ll just wait patiently for them to be finished. Finally, Bernadetta says, gently, “Of course I will. It’s… kinda a relief to see you two. Maybe I’ve been locked up too long.” Her joke falls flat, and she hurries to fill the awkward silence. “Um, so–”

“Wonderful,” Linhardt says, getting to his feet. “I’ll bring dinner and check up on him tomorrow. Good night.”

Caspar winces sympathetically. “You must be exhausted, huh?” he says. Damn him for knowing Linhardt so well. “You better get some rest.”

“That was the plan,” he huffs, irritably. “I’ll see you both tomorrow. Do try not to make too much noise. This will be hard enough to pull off without you being heard.” Bernadetta sputters an attempt at replying, but he leaves before she can say anything more.

He’s quick to return to his room and flop, exhausted, onto his bed. He shouldn’t have gotten snappish, he knows, but socializing had gotten so  _ grating _ . He squeezes his eyes shut. He  _ is _ happy to see Bernadetta again, though. It’s oddly comforting, seeing someone in the same position as himself, seeing how little  _ she’s _ changed, too. And it’s really quite kind of her to take on the responsibility of keeping Caspar hidden.

Warmed by gratitude and worn out by conversation, sleep comes to him easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stay tuned tomorrow for another chapter WITH ART(!!!!)


	3. when the lights go out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some plans, some schemes, some close calls, some feelings, and most importantly, some ART!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all, i'm so excited to FINALLY show off the art by [FM Mars](https://twitter.com/FMMars1/status/1331707464274890762?s=20), it is GLORIOUS. enjoy the chapter but especially enjoy the gift that is this!!! art!!!

When Linhardt knocks on the door with his foot, there are several seconds of silence. He frowns; what on earth could they be up to? Their routine has been the same for several days now – Bernadetta should know when to expect him. He’s about to shift his tray of food into one arm to knock more insistently when Bernadetta throws the door open–

Clutching a deadly-looking pair of shears in one hand.

Linhardt raises an eyebrow. “Am I interrupting something?”

Bernadetta laughs nervously. “Um, well. Not really. I mean, we’re just finishing up.” _Finishing up_? Before Linhardt can vocalize his question, Bernadetta allows him in, going over to the desk to fiddle and leaving Linhardt to set the tray down on the side table and take in what exactly the two of them have been up to.

The furniture before the fireplace has been pushed aside to make room for a spare bedsheet, laid out beneath the desk chair. A bedsheet, Linhardt notices, covered in thick blue locks. And a chair occupied by none other than Caspar himself, with his hair freshly cut.

Caspar lights up at the sight of him, waving him over. “Hey, Lin! So it turns out Bernadetta has been cutting her own hair all this time – isn’t that cool? So I asked her to do me, and well, here we are!” Linhardt approaches hesitantly, regarding Caspar’s haircut almost with distrust. He doesn’t look… quite so bedraggled anymore. Linhardt swallows; the shorter style highlights the sharp line of his jaw, and it’s undeniably a _Caspar_ style, much more so than that ridiculous ponytail, which only increases its appeal. What a bother – Caspar is undoubtedly handsome.

Caspar grins, striking a pose. “Isn’t it great? I forgot how much having short hair _rules_ .” Linhardt walks around him, appraising. Aside from the mop of hair on top, Caspar’s hair is shorn close to his head. Linhardt hums thoughtfully, mostly to acknowledge Caspar’s words. “Now it’s not gonna get in my face all the time and _buh_.” Caspar crashes to a halt, going bright pink as Linhardt runs his fingers through his fringe, flipping it up enough for him to look at the side of his head it covers. “Lin, c’mon,” he squeaks, and Linhardt huffs a laugh.

“So sorry,” he says drily. “Am I messing it up?” He musses his hair, and Caspar squawks indignantly.

“ _Seriously_?” Caspar swats at his arm, and eventually Linhardt lets up, taking a step back.

“Fine, fine,” he says mildly. “I wouldn’t want to ruin your new look so quickly, I suppose.”

Bernadetta smiles shyly. “U-um, so… you like it?”

Linhardt crosses his arms over his chest, raising a brow. “Why are you asking me? It’s _his_ haircut.” Bernadetta gives him a pleading look; Caspar pouts at him. Linhardt sighs, aggrieved. “Fine. It’s. Nice enough. I suppose.”

Caspar beams. “That means he likes it,” he assures Bernadetta. “Woo-hoo! I look amazing!” Linhardt snorts and hopes he doesn’t look as _fond_ as he feels. “Man, just wait until Claude sees this.”

Immediately, Linhardt’s mood drops. “This again?” he says irritably.

Caspar frowns at him. “Uh, yeah, _this again_. The plan hasn’t changed, Lin. I’m going to Garreg Mach as soon as I’m feeling better.”

“Caspar, how many times must I explain this? Garreg Mach was captured by the Empire. No one is going to be there, much less an Alliance force.”

“Um.” Linhardt swivels his head to look at Bernadetta, who shrinks. “I-I hate to argue, because, um, I know what you’re saying, but, well…”

“That’s right!” Caspar says cheerfully. “Show him what you got, Bernie!” Bernadetta scampers over to her bedside table, rummaging in the back of the drawer and pulling out at envelope. She hurries back to Linhardt’s side, passing the note to him. He frowns and pulls out the letter inside.

_My deerest friend_ , the letter reads, _You are cordially invited to the Millennium Festival for a celebration of our shared history. The Stag is hoping that all his Antlers will be in attendance, as was once promised._

“See?” Caspar says smugly. “Claude’s definitely gonna be there.”

“It-it might not really be from him,” Bernadetta suggests. “There’s really no way to tell, right? So I’m probably wrong…”

Linhardt studies the letter. It’s done up like an invitation to a formal event, complete with gold leaf and delicate calligraphy. “It’s him,” he says flatly.

“So that’s that, right?” Caspar seems triumphant. “Now I _know_ I won’t be the only one there! And I bet Claude has a plan, too.”

Linhardt frowns. “It’s odd, though.” Caspar groans, and he huffs. “It is. He says he wants all of the Deer to be there.” He holds the invitation up to Caspar. “But I never received a letter.”

“It’s probably just waiting for you at home,” Caspar says soothingly. Linhardt blinks. Is he… consoling him? Does Caspar think he’s _jealous_ ? Ridiculous. _And sweet_ , his traitorous brain murmurs; he shakes his head to dispel the thought.

“Um, I don’t really think so?” Bernadetta says. “I-I mean, it could be! But I got this months ago.” She frowns. “It seems weird that it would take so much longer to reach you, right?”

Linhardt shrugs. “There’s no way to tell,” he says. “We can sit here and theorize all day. I still believe this is the real thing.”

“So we’re going,” Caspar says triumphantly, as if it’s all settled.

Linhardt raises an eyebrow. “We?” he says, affronted.

“Yeah. Me and Bernadetta. Right?” Linhardt turns his gaze on Bernadetta, who _eeps_ softly, tugging at her hair.

“Bernadetta?” Linhardt says plainly. “You’re going?”

She waffles for a few moments. Linhardt sighs, rolling his eyes, but she looks at Caspar, who smiles encouragingly, and then she straightens up and says, determined, “Y-yes. I’m going.”

Linhardt throws his hands up in disgust. “Unbelievable,” he mutters. Bernadetta covers her face with her hands, whimpering.

“Aw yeah!” Caspar cheers. “Welcome to the resistance, Bern!” He holds his hand out for a high five; Bernadetta peeks through her fingers, then slowly reaches out to slap his hand with her own. As soon as she does, he cheers again. “This is gonna be great!”

“No, it isn’t,” Linhardt says flatly. “Not if Claude doesn’t have a brilliant plan to get rid of all the soldiers around the monastery.”

Caspar waves a hand dismissively. “I’m sure he does,” he says breezily. “We just have to be there! Right, Bernie?”

“Um.” Bernadetta peeks up at Linhardt, frowning slightly. “R-right. But we aren’t going to be able to be there, unless...” He sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose, and she squeaks. “Oh, I’m so sorry, just forget it! Stupid Bernie, always dragging everyone else into your problems–”

“Bernadetta,” he says wearily. “Just tell me.”

Bernadetta swallows. “O-oh, well, it’s just… It’s just that I don’t know how we’re going to get out of the manor. I mean, there’s a lot of scary-um, a lot of guards around. And I think they’ll notice if I’m gone. So…”

Linhardt lets out a long, exhausted sigh. “You want me to help you get out.”

Caspar nods vigorously. “Right! We could be in serious trouble if we try to figure it out by ourselves. And you’re a _genius_ , Linhardt, so I’m sure you can find a way for us to escape.”

“And then I can be caught helping a fugitive,” he intones dully, “charged for treason, and hung for my crimes. Brilliant idea, Caspar, truly.”

Caspar huffs. “How is it any less dangerous than what you’ve _been_ doing? Come on! If you don’t help us, we’ll probably get captured, and they’ll just figure out you were helping us anyway. Just help us find a way out of the estate. We’ll be totally independent for the rest of it.”

Linhardt squeezes his eyes shut. It is true that helping Bernadetta and Caspar escape is hardly a step up from what he’s _been_ doing. And yet: it’s still a step up, because the guards around the manor know he’s been interacting with Bernadetta on a daily basis. He’ll be suspected by default.

And yet. Left to their own devices, Caspar and Bernadetta will hardly make it out of the room.

He sighs. “ _Only_ out of the manor,” he says, steadfastly ignoring Caspar’s triumphant grin. “And I need time to figure something out. And _you_ –” He jabs a finger in Caspar’s face; he goes wide-eyed and blinks up at him. “-need time to recover. I’m still not letting you out of my sight until you’re fit for travel.”

Caspar beams. “Deal. Thanks for this, Lin.” Bernadetta nods, smiling with relief, and chimes her own thanks. Linhardt sighs.

“Don’t thank me now,” he mutters. “Neither of you are safe just yet.”

* * *

“Lord Hevring.” The voice is vaguely familiar, but then, Linhardt knows a lot of voices. He lazily glances over his shoulder, forcing himself not to straighten up at the sight of the head guard standing there. What was his name – Brekker? Ah, no – _Bruckner_ , that was it. He’s fixing Linhardt with a pleasant smile, completely at odds with the steely look in his eye.

“Captain,” he says, belatedly realizing that he isn’t, in fact, a captain, and neglecting to correct himself. “I’m rather surprised to see you down by the kitchens. Don’t you have security to attend to?”

Bruckner steps closer, that same fixed smile on his face, and he says, conversationally, “I could say the same to you – at least, in regards to being so near the servants’ quarters.” He half-laughs at his own shitty joke. Linhardt grants him no such curtesy, forcing Bruckner to continue. “You’ll find I keep a careful watch on all parts of the manor. I wouldn’t want anyone dangerous getting in.”

_Or out_. Anxiety spikes in Linhardt’s stomach, but he remains outwardly bored and unaffected, for his own sake. “Your diligence is appreciated, I’m sure,” he drawls, before lapsing into silence. Any moment now, a servant will present him with a tray of food, and he can abscond to the safety of Bernadetta’s room.

Bruckner bull-headedly breaks the quiet. “I must say, milord, I find it rather odd that you take the time each day to deliver meals to the Lady Varley.” Linhardt wills himself not to tense up. “It’s servants’ work, isn’t it? And yet you do so, without fail.”

Linhardt snorts. “Come, now, it’s an excuse to avoid dinner with the Count and his wife. Can you blame me?”

Humor, unsurprisingly, is useless. Bruckner’s eyes narrow a touch – maybe a coincidence, maybe… not. “No, I suppose I can’t,” he says, with a little laugh. “Still, that takes some dedication. My guards tell me you’re often there late into the night.” He inclines his head. “It’s quite kind of you to stay around and chat, especially after the strain of speaking with the Count all day.”

“He is a headache,” Linhardt murmurs. Where is that damned _dinner_? “But Bernadetta is far less so. We went to school together, you may recall.”

“With the Emperor,” Bruckner says coolly. “I’d heard as much. Though I _also_ heard both milord and the Lady Varley transferred into another class. With several Alliance nobles, correct?” He laughs; there isn’t a hint of humor in it. In fact, it’s rather chilling. “I attended the Academy myself, you know, although I was a Black Eagle through and through. In any case, I’m sure your reunion is quite exciting.”

Linhardt frowns. He can read Bruckner’s suspicion easily, and it’s the last thing he needs when he’s actively planning an escape. He lifts his head, almost defiantly, and says, “I can read between the lines. If you must know, Major, there _is_ an ulterior motive to my dinners with Bernadetta.” Bruckner’s hairy eyebrows lift the slightest bit; Linhardt glances around furtively, then leans in close and drops his voice to a low murmur. “You see, officially, I’m here negotiating with Count Varley. This is true. But my father has also requested that I…” He swallows – nerves, he’d claim, but it’s actually disgust – and says, “I _reacquaint_ myself with Lady Varley. If you understand my meaning.”

Bruckner’s eyes widen the slightest bit, and he nods slowly. All appropriate for someone who’s just heard a juicy bit of gossip. “I see,” he says. “You two would certainly make for an interesting match.”

_Ugh_. Interesting is one word for it. Linhardt forces a coy little smile. “Indeed. I hope that answers any questions you may have about the time I spend in Bernadetta’s presence.” At least upper-class society is predictable – one mention of a potential political marriage is all it takes to occupy their minds long enough to sneak something past them. Speaking of which, a servant finally emerges from the kitchen with a tray of food, which Linhardt snatches gratefully. “Well, Major, I’ll be seeing you–”

“Ah, what’s the rush?” Linhardt freezes, and Bruckner effortlessly plucks the tray from his hands, nodding to the servant to send him off. “Allow me to carry this for you. Fear not; I’ll leave you two to _reacquaint_ yourselves as soon as everything is settled.”

Linhardt’s heart is pounding in his chest, but he has no reason to refuse. “Oh,” he says faintly. “How kind. Let us… go, then.”

The one advantage to this situation is that Linhardt doesn’t have to carry the heavy tray up the stairs; Bruckner’s broad shoulders and steady gait are far better suited to that. That’s the only coherent thought he has; the rest is just a plur of panic. What excuse can he make, he thinks, that Bruckner will accept as a suitable reason to stay away from Bernadetta’s room? There are none, at least none that wouldn’t immediately garner suspicion. _This is it_ , he thinks to himself. The end of the line. Bruckner will open the door to Bernadetta’s room and see Caspar on the chaise as he always is, and that will be the end of that.

It takes both an eternity and no time at all before they are standing in front of the door. Bruckner looks at Linhardt meaningfully, and, dully, he knocks.

He tries desperately to form a plan – knock the hot tray of food onto Bruckner to distract him, somehow get inside and barricade the door before he recovers. Then all he has to do is get the three of them out of a second story bedroom and away from the manor before the guardsmen swarm them like enraged honeybees. Or perhaps just two of them – he can Warp Caspar, and perhaps Bernadetta, if he concentrates, although he hasn’t performed a Warp in a good while, much less two in a row. He can’t get them too far, but he can give them a good head start.

And then the door swings open, and there’s Bernadetta, smiling at the sight of Linhardt but frowning when she sees Bruckner beside him. They exchange words, but Linhardt can’t hear them over the roar in his ears. _Knock the tray onto Bruckner_ , he tells himself, but he’s frozen, until he hears Bernadetta say, “Well, um, come on in, then,” and step aside to admit them.

Linhardt feels a sharp stab of betrayal, but as they enter, he sees the room is… empty.

Linhardt stands stupidly in the doorway, staring at the empty chaise as Bruckner sets the tray on the table. “It’s such a pleasure to get to see you, milady,” he’s rambling; Linhardt shoots a look over at Bernadetta, who’s standing weirdly far away, near the door to her lavatory, and she responds with a tight-lipped frown.

“Y-yes, sir,” she says, awkwardly loud. “I’m so… surprised to see you _here_ , in my _room_.” She clears her throat. “Pleasantly surprised, of course.” Bruckner smiles tepidly; Linhardt is at a complete loss for words. “So!” she says, clasping her hands together. “Th-thank you, for, um, bringing dinner. You’re too… kind.”

Bruckner inclines his head. “Happy to help, Lady Varley.” He casts an assessing eye around her room and, seemingly finding nothing amiss, heads for the door. “Well,” he says, “I’d best be leaving you two to your… conversations. Good night to you both.”

Linhardt steps aside to let him pass. “Yes,” he says faintly. “Good night.”

Bruckner steps out, closing the door behind him. Linhardt listens to the soft _clomp_ of his boots down the hall. As soon as they’ve faded, Bernadetta collapses onto her bed, covering her red face with her hands. “We should be dead,” she moans. “I can’t believe we’re not dead. Oh, Seiros, how are we not dead?”

“Where is Caspar?” Linhardt asks urgently, but there’s no need – apparently, Caspar hears that the danger has passed, as he peeks his head out of the lavatory.

“Are we okay?” Caspar asks, frowning; Linhardt could kiss him, he’s so relieved. Or slap him, he’s so _stressed_. “Was that a guard?”

Linhardt waves him out, going over to sit heavily in his chair. Bernadetta is still muttering frantically to herself, now too quiet for him to make it out. “We are _ridiculously_ lucky,” he says, rubbing his temple to stave off his headache. “Saints above. Bernadetta, are you breathing?” There’s a few moments of silence before she extends her hand in a thumbs-up. “I’ll take it.”

Caspar lets out a breath, sitting down on the chaise. “Wow. I can’t believe-what was he even _doing_ in here?”

Linhardt sighs. “He’s suspicious of me. He likely thinks Bernadetta and I are planning an escape – at least he’s only half-right. Hopefully, now that he’s been up here, he’s not quite so concerned about it.”

Caspar frowns. “It kinda sounds like we’re running outta time, Lin. How long before he starts to get suspicious again?”

“I-I think we need to leave,” Bernadetta pipes up; she’s finally composed herself, sitting on her bed with her knees tucked up under her chin. “As soon as possible. Do you have a plan yet?”

Linhardt frowns. “I… may. I’ve done a bit of digging. This home was completed in the mid-ninth century. Bernadetta, to your knowledge, has it ever undergone extensive renovations?”

Bernadetta chews her lip, thoughtful. “Not that I know of. My-my father is very proud of it – its, um, authenticity.”

Linhardt smiles despite himself. “So I thought, based on what I’ve seen of the place. Noble residences from this era have some rather predictable architectural quirks.” He gets to his feet, beginning to pace. Caspar watches his progress with a little grin.

“I forgot you read all those books about architecture,” he says, obviously impressed. Linhardt’s chest warms with pride. “What’d you figure out?”

Linhardt raises an eyebrow. “Caspar,” he says, “do you remember when you used to visit my home when we were children?” Caspar crosses his arms over his chest, a silent _duh_ , and Linhardt snorts. “It was our favorite game,” he prompts. “Hide and seek.”

Caspar’s eyes light up. “In all those secret passages!” he exclaims.

“Precisely,” Linhardt says. “You see, homes from that era were often built with these hidden tunnels. They were typically included in case the noble family needed a quick, quiet escape – it was a period of great unrest, politically and socially speaking – though they had several other uses, including–” Bernadetta’s frowning at him, and Caspar looks faintly confused; he’s losing them. “Nevermind. The point is, I think it’s quite likely there’s an entrance to these passages somewhere in this room.”

Caspar cocks his head. “But your father had those tunnels blocked off. They might not even be around anymore.”

Linhardt nods. “It’s true – these passages fell out of style when they proved to be useful tools for spies, assassins, and the occasional well-read thief. Over the years, these old homes have undergone refurbishment, and the tunnels have been blocked off, their memory fading into obscurity.”

Bernadetta cocks her head. “But not here,” she says. “Because my father has avoided making changes to the home? But couldn’t someone have still gotten rid of them in the past?”

“Perhaps, but I doubt it. From what I’ve seen of the interior and the exterior of this home, hardly _any_ changes have been made to the original construction. I believe your family has done only the minimum upkeep.” He gestures to the room around them. “I strongly suspect that somewhere in this room lies a hidden entrance to these secret passages. I’d be surprised if said passages weren’t nearly entirely intact, and I doubt Bruckner and his goons know about them. That’s our escape.”

Caspar claps; Bernadetta smiles hesitantly. “So we just have to find an exit?” she says.

Linhardt nods. “Exactly. There’s only a few spots it could be. We just have to do a bit of poking.”

And poke they do. Bernadetta checks beneath her bed for trapdoors; Linhardt examines the fireplace to see if there’s a hidden panel; Caspar sulks, confined to the chaise with a sharp “Stay.” Linhardt frowns, his search unfruitful. “How odd,” he murmurs. “In bedrooms, they’re usually…” He trails off, gaze wandering around the room as he ponders. It lands on the bookshelves, and he perks up. “Ah, one moment. It’s possible, Bernadetta, that your family did _some_ renovation.” Bernadetta crawls out from under the bed and watches as he studies the shelves, giving them a shove. “Yes, it seems so. The bookshelves are built-in, not standalone pieces. This room was likely _originally_ a study.”

“So…” Caspar prompts, frowning.

“We’ve been looking in all the wrong places,” Linhardt says. “In a study, the most likely place for a passage is…” He looks over the shelves at eye level, peeking behind their contents. “Ah, here we are.” He presses a panel at the back of one shelf, triggering a mechanism that lets a section of shelf swing open. Bernadetta comes over to peer at the hidden entrance curiously.

“There we have it,” Linhardt says.

“Way to go, Lin!” Caspar cheers.

The air from the passage is cool and a bit musty. As Linhardt peers into the dark, narrow staircase, he gets a slight chill. “I doubt it’s blocked off,” he says. “But there’s only one way to be sure.”

Caspar swings his legs off the couch, making to stand. “Nope. I’m coming.”

“No, you’re not,” Linhardt says flatly. Before Caspar can protest, he cuts him off, holding up a finger as he ticks off each point. “You’re exceptionally loud, I will _not_ need protection because no one will be down there, you should be keeping off that foot, and ah, yes, you’re _incredibly_ wanted.”

“Okay, but what if you _do_ run into a guard? You’re toast.” Caspar folds his arms over his chest, as if he’d just proven some incredible point. Linhardt rolls his eyes.

“I am not _toast_ . I’ll chock it up to my own curiosity, and they won’t suspect a thing. The worst thing that happens is they learn about the existence of the passageways.” He fixes Caspar with a pointed look. “If _you_ come, they’ll know I’m trying to sneak a criminal out of the house, and you’re more likely to get us caught with all your stomping.”

Caspar huffs. “I don’t _stomp_ ,” he mutters.

Linhardt rolls his eyes. “You won’t miss anything, Caspar, just going around in some old, dusty tunnels. If I’m not back in an hour, you can start worrying. Alright?” He looks between Caspar and Bernadetta; at length, they both nod their agreement. “Wonderful. I’ll see you soon.”

With that, he heads down the staircase, into the dark.

* * *

The tunnels are exactly as he expected. Cold. Pitch-black. Intact. _Exceptionally_ uneventful.

Linhardt passes beneath some rooms where the candlelight shines through thin cracks in the floorboards, and others where footfalls are muffled by thick Srengi rugs. For a while, he runs beside first-story rooms, and the walls are thin enough for him to make out muffled voices; then there’s another set of stairs, and he descends beneath the ground.

He keeps careful track of every turn he takes, determined not to get lost. He walks up another flight of stairs and frowns, concerned he’s walking in circles, when he feels a draft.

He follows it, one hand to the outside wall, until he feels a catch in the smooth surface. He pauses, ear pressed to the door, listening for noise, then finally opens it just a crack and peeks his head out.

Moonlight.

Linhardt smiles, emerging for a breath of fresh air. He seems to be in some section of the gardens, in an overgrown berm, around the back of the house. _A way out_ , he thinks, his spirits rising. He draws a small _X_ on the ground to mark this as the correct exit, then goes back in the way he came, noting every twist and turn.

* * *

“You’re certain you can do this?”

Bernadetta nods, brow furrowed. “I memorized the directions you gave me. Plus, I’m not so bad at finding my way in the dark.” She takes a deep breath, twisting her fingers. “I’ll be fine.”

Linhardt studies her for a moment. She looks serious. Determined. He can almost believe she knows what she’s doing. “If you’re not back in an hour, I’ll come down and find you,” he says finally. Bernadetta smiles hesitantly. “Go on.”

“Good luck, Bern!” Caspar cheers, and she gives him a little salute and disappears down the dark staircase into the hidden passages. Linhardt sighs and settles down into his chair. There’s nothing left to do but wait, and he suspects he’ll be waiting a while – it took him two nights to find an optimal route from her room to the little garden exit, and they spent another night going over the route, making sure Bernadetta had each turn memorized before she ventured into the passage herself. The tunnels pass too close to occupied rooms for comfort – they’ll have to be utterly silent when they finally leave, and they won’t be able to take a light. Linhardt, adept as he is at moving quietly in illicit spaces, can make the journey from Bernadetta’s room to the exit and back in about half an hour; on her first try, he strongly suspects she’ll take a bit longer.

None of this to mention what _Caspar_ will do when it’s his turn. At least he’s not afraid of tight spaces, or the dark, even if he isn’t as partial to them as Bernadetta is; it will be hard enough for him to keep quiet the one time he traverses through the passages, so Linhardt is more than happy to keep Caspar up in the light as long as he can.

Speaking of: “How are you feeling?” he asks, getting to his feet to begin looking Caspar over. Caspar smiles up at him from his seat on the chaise.

“Doing great! Back to my old self, almost,” he brags. “Which is good, right? We gotta hit the road soon if we want to make it to Garreg Mach in time.”

Linhardt hums, the note sourer than he intended. “Yes,” he says drily. “Of course.” He could hardly forget that this little adventure would lead to Caspar’s departure – he talks about it far too often for that – but now the notion looms large, casting an unpleasant shadow over them. These days, Caspar is obviously far less fatigued than he has been for the past few weeks, and his cuts have all faded or scabbed over. The fact is, the reasons for Linhardt to keep him here are quickly disappearing. Not, of course, that he’s _trying_ to keep Caspar around. His presence has been nothing but disruptive of Linhardt’s highly methodical life, and that’s simply untenable. Hadn’t he caused enough disruption by leaving in the first place? Must he make things worse?

Linhardt probes at Caspar’s ankle perhaps a bit too hard, making him flinch. “Ah. This is still healing, then.”

Caspar pouts. “Aw, c’mon, it’s mostly okay. As long as I don’t, y’know, touch it or anything.” Linhardt rolls his eyes.

“You’re going to be doing an awful lot of walking when you leave, and an awful lot of fighting after that,” he counters. “You’re not going anywhere on that ankle, at least not for a few days.”

Caspar frowns. “But, Lin, we don’t have that kinda time. We have to get to Garreg Mach, and we _have_ to get out of here before Bruckner gets suspicious again–”

Linhardt holds up a hand to silence him. “That’s all very well and good,” he says. “But you want me to help you, correct? This is me helping you.” He pokes Caspar’s furrowed brow, smoothing it out. “A few days. No longer than a week, I’d guess. You’ll be fine.”

Satisfied, Linhardt takes Caspar’s ankle gingerly in hand, focusing on a Heal spell. This long after the injury, it won’t do much – Faith simply has its limits. But it may accelerate the healing process a bit, and it will certainly dull the pain. Caspar watches him as he works, quiet for a long moment, before he finally says, “You just wanna keep me around, don’t you?”

Linhardt jerks his head up, mouth opening to protest, but he sees a teasing gleam in Caspar’s eye and a mischievous little smile on his lips and rolls his eyes instead. “You caught me,” he drawls. “I’m so much more at ease harboring a wanted criminal.”

Caspar sighs. “C’mon, Linhardt, you don’t have to keep up the act. If you’re so desperate for my company, you can just come with me,” he says as Linhardt finishes with his ankle and perches on the edge of the chaise, angled to face him. “Really, though. You’re not… actually happy here, are you?”

Linhardt frowns at him. “Well,” he says, thoughtful. “It’s no secret that I prefer to be at home.”

Caspar groans. “Lin, I’m being serious, here–”

“As am I,” he says stubbornly. “At home, I have books and comfort and safety. Believe it or not, I don’t enjoy fighting off bandits or sneaking around in the dark or lying to armed soldiers, despite _all_ evidence to the contrary.” Caspar opens his mouth to retort; Linhardt doesn’t let him. “I truly _cannot_ understand what makes you think I’m well-suited to your lifestyle, Caspar. I’m simply not. You can invite me as many times as you wish. You can make grand speeches about happiness and purpose. You can beg, if you truly wish to–”

“Fine.” Linhardt looks at Caspar sharply; his expression is unreadable, but set, solid and determined. “Linhardt, please. Please come to Garreg Mach with us.”

Linhardt gawks at him. There’s an odd fluttering in his chest – not his heart, lower, nearer to his diaphragm. Goddess, is he breathing? He takes a sharp breath, just to be certain. “I’m afraid I wasn’t invited,” he says as he averts his eyes, his attempted sarcasm falling flat.

He can feel Caspar’s gaze on him, heavy and expectant. Linhardt quite _hates_ expectations. “Lin, come on,” he says quietly. “We’d all like you there. Me and Bernadetta, Claude and the others… we’d like you to be there.”

Linhardt scoffs. “I wouldn’t speak for so many people, if I were you.” He smooths his palms over his thighs and looks at Caspar, lips pressed in a tight line. “You never received an invitation like Bernadetta’s. That’s unsurprising – you’ve been traveling all this time. You’re not exactly easy to pin down.” He cocks his head and swallows. “Why wouldn’t I receive one? This is the first time I’ve left home since I returned from Garreg Mach, and I’m under _less_ surveillance than Bernadetta is, so getting a letter to me should be a breeze. It’s rather obvious that my presence is unneeded.”

Caspar scowls, his eyes stormy. “That’s not true,” he says lowly, deathly serious. Linhardt raises an eyebrow and juts out his chin, defiant.

“Isn’t it? Marianne is a more than sufficient healer. Lysithea is a prodigious battle-mage. Claude is a genius, in tactics and virtually everything else. And _no one else_ has a fear of blood, making them all far better fighters than I am.” His fingers clench in the fabric of his pants, and his mouth twists in a frown. Hadn’t he heard it from Hubert a thousand times, back in the academy? He’s worthless, his research unhelpful, his laziness untenable, and his demeanor making him far from worth the effort. “So why should I go? So I can watch my friends bleed and die? So I can drag the rest of them down with me? You want to know why I want to stay at home, Caspar? Because the role I play there is one no one else can play. My father needs _me_ to do it. So at least I can say my role is worthwhile.” By the time he’s finished speaking, Linhardt’s practically spitting the words out. His cheeks are hot. His chest, too. And everything _itches_ , in the worst way. He stares hard at his fists, balled up in his lap.

And then he watches Caspar’s hand cover one of his own. “I need you, too,” he says softly. His touch is a muscle relaxant; Linhardt’s hand goes limp, and Caspar takes it, engulfing it with one calloused palm. “I don’t care what everyone else can do. I want _you_ there with me, Lin. Because it’s you. I don’t need you to do anything else but be you.”

Linhardt looks at him – _really_ looks, for a long few moments. Everything about Caspar is… soft. Gentle. Tender. There’s a ghost of a smile on his face, and an open look in his eye. He’s inviting Linhardt, with all the kindness and understanding that he has. And it’s Caspar – Linhardt knows no one with a bigger, kinder heart. Yet his stubbornness, his fear, his _guilt_ , clawing at his throat and pulling him down, all prevent him from accepting the invitation. “How?” he asks, his voice whisper-soft. “I let you down, Caspar. You… needed me.” Caspar’s brow furrows, but Linhardt continues, undeterred. “You were alone, because I was too much of a coward to come with you. I’ll let you down again. You must know I will. And I… I’m not strong enough to do that and live with myself.” He swallows shakily. “I’m afraid. I’m afraid to go with you. I’m afraid to watch you die. I’m afraid that fear will make me do something terrible that I can’t accept. I refuse to let you down again.”

Caspar doesn’t respond, just watches. Linhardt can see the gears turning in his mind. What is there to say? Linhardt is right – he’s a coward. Caspar must see it now. And yet, Caspar says, “I’m not mad at you for that. Just so you know. I’m glad you took care of yourself.” What a simple sentiment, and yet it still takes his breath away. “Can I tell you something, Lin?” he continues, rubbing the back of his hand with his thumb. He waits for Linhardt to nod hesitantly before he proceeds. “I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for you.” Linhardt’s doubt must show on his face, because Caspar says, “I mean it! I’d be dead. You took care of me while I was sick. You fought off a group of bandits. You snuck me into and out of heavily guarded manors, and you’re about to do it again.” 

Linhardt hums dubiously, casting his gaze to the side. There’s too much, in Caspar’s face. It’s too overwhelming. “Linhardt,” he says, softly, fondly, and then his hand is on Linhardt’s cheek, forcing him to look at him, as gentle as if he were handling a pane of glass, warmer than the sun, “you’re amazing. You know what you can do that no one else can do?” Linhardt’s brow furrows, but he’s struck mute, unable to formulate a response. Caspar seems to understand – he always does. “You take care of me, Lin,” he says quietly. “You always have. And I used to take care of you, too. I still would, if you wanted me to.” Caspar smiles shyly, and he’s so devastatingly handsome that Linhardt’s certain something inside of him is about to shatter under the force of it. “But I think you grew out of needing me to do that. I’m glad.” He half-laughs, half-sighs; it’s not a happy sound. “It’s your choice, Lin. No one else can make it for you. I just hope, whatever you choose, it makes you happy.”

Caspar’s fingers stroke his cheek, and all Linhardt can do is lean into the touch, preternaturally drawn to it. He has no control over himself, but he isn’t afraid. Instead, he’s overwhelmed with… peace. Security. Assurance. Warmth. He feels _home_ , and it’s because of Caspar. Caspar is the one who makes him feel this way, and Linhardt wonders how it took him so long to realize it. “Caspar,” he murmurs. “I–”

And then he hears footsteps and a relieved gasp for air, and Linhardt spins in his seat to see Bernadetta sagging against the bookshelves. The movement cause Caspar’s hand to drop awkwardly back to his side. “Bernie did it,” she says dreamily, her hands clutched together at her chest. “How was that? It wasn’t an hour, right?”

Linhardt clears his throat, the spell over him broken. “Well done, Bernadetta,” he says, standing to go congratulate her with a pat on the shoulder. Truth be told, he has no idea how long it’d been; he’d gotten embarrassingly distracted, and his head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton. “How was it down there?”

Bernadetta smiles hesitantly. “Not-not that bad, actually! It’s kinda nice, knowing no one can see you down there. Oh!” She straightens up. “I found the exit you mentioned. It’s actually not far from the stables, I don’t think.”

Linhardt blinks slowly, unable to process that information until he gives his head a solid shake to clear it. “Wonderful,” he says, business-like, as it all clicks into place. “Then let’s go over the plan, shall we?” He glances over at Caspar, who looks rather dazed himself. “Caspar?” he says, a bit guilty to see him start. “Are you ready?”

Caspar looks between Linhardt and Bernadetta once, twice. “Yes,” he says finally, more of a question than a statement. It’ll have to do.

“Wonderful,” Linhardt says again. “Caspar will be ready for travel in a few days. As soon as he is, you two will travel under cover of night through the tunnels. I’ll close the entrance behind you, then return to my room, where I’ll enter for myself and come join you so I can see you off.”

Bernadetta nods. “From there, we’ll sneak down to the stables and climb on Patroclus.” Linhardt and Caspar both frown at her, confused, and she goes red. “Um, my pegasus. He should be able to hold both of us. And then Caspar and I will take off.”

Linhardt nods. “Good. Fly as far as you can. With any luck, I’ll be able to hide your absence for a few days, but if worst comes to worst, you’ll at least have a good head start. Follow the route I’ve mapped out for you – it should avoid large concentrations of Imperial soldiers, and you _must_ stop in the first town I’ve marked. Apparently, Isolde’s ‘people’ will have armor and weapons for you there.” He sighs. “If Claude _does_ intend to fight a war, you’ll need them. From there, just proceed on to Garreg Mach. I assume the honorable Duke Riegan will inform you of the plan from there.”

Caspar frowns. “That all sounds great,” he says, “but Lin, what are you going to do?”

Bernadetta turns an expectant look on him. He frowns. “Return to my room through the tunnels,” he says slowly, “Continue bringing dinner here as normal to cover your escape. Go home.”

Caspar’s frown deepens. “Uh, but what if they suspect you? What happens when they realize Bernadetta’s gone missing? They’ll definitely think you had something to do with it.”

Linhardt rolls his eyes. “Caspar, please, I can talk my way out of it. You needn’t worry about me – you two will be in _far_ greater danger.”

Caspar still looks doubtful, but finally, he nods. “If you’re sure you’ll be alright,” he mutters.

Linhardt frowns at him for another moment. Hadn’t Caspar just been saying Linhardt could take care of himself? Honestly. “Good,” he says. “Any questions?”

Bernadetta shakes her head. “Um, no, but… thanks, Linhardt. I… I know this is hard, but, um, we couldn’t do it without you.” She smiles tentatively at him. “So. Thanks, I guess.”

Linhardt blinks at her. The sentiment is short, yes, but heartfelt, and he can’t help but smile back, just a bit. “Good,” he repeats, not quite so business-like. “You have the map outlining the route to the monastery – don’t lose it. We’ll practice the path through the tunnels again tomorrow, just to be safe.” With everything settled, Linhardt’s hit with a wave of exhaustion, and he yawns. “Well then,” he says, “I’m going to bed. Good night, you two.”

“Night!” Bernadetta chirps, alongside Caspar’s more solemn, “G’night.” Linhardt frowns at him, a bit confused by his pouting, but he feels that wave of tiredness wash over him again and decides he can’t be bothered to figure it out tonight. With a last half-hearted wave, he sees himself out of Bernadetta’s room.

* * *

He makes it out of her room. He makes it down the hall. He makes it past the guard stationed there, who gives him a shallow nod. He makes it out of the guard’s line of sight.

At that point, Linhardt is promptly yanked, hard, into an alcove, a hand pressed over his mouth before he can let out a startled yelp.

The hall is dark, and so is his assailant – dressed in all black, with a shock of black hair, but it takes very little time for Linhardt to make out pasty skin and green-yellow eyes. He stifles a groan; as it is, he can’t refrain from rolling his eyes.

“Linhardt,” Hubert growls out, in his low opera-villain voice. “Such a surprise to meet with you here.”

Linhardt snatches Hubert’s hand away from his mouth, leaning hard into his annoyance to avoid contemplating just how bad of an omen this is. “Was that necessary?” he complains.

“I have _important_ matters to _discuss_ with you.” Ugh, Linhardt forgot how Hubert loves to speak in italics. He barely stops himself from rolling his eyes again.

“If that’s the case, Hubert, you could always write,” he drawls. “My life is so terribly dull, I may even reply.”

Hubert’s eyes narrow. “Dull, is it?” He smirks. “Somehow, I doubt that. But if you truly feel that way, you wouldn’t mind taking some time to answer a few _questions_.”

Linhardt sighs, aggrieved. “Actually, I’m exhausted, so if you’ll excuse me…” He makes a move to leave only for Hubert to grab his arm with an iron grip.

“It won’t take but a moment,” he says lowly. Linhardt suppresses a shiver. “Right this way.”

As Hubert leads him to a dark room, Linhardt tries to stay calm. If Hubert knew about his dealings with Caspar, he reasons, he’d already be dead, and Caspar would be, too. Hubert’s looking for information. Obviously, Linhardt has plenty to hide, but he thinks he may be able to talk his way out. Hubert has a terribly low tolerance for Linhardt’s bullshit, after all. “Sit,” he growls, shoving Linhardt toward a chair, and Linhardt huffs as he delicately takes a seat.

“What could possibly be so important that you came all this way to harass me?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest and watching Hubert slink around the room. Not to any effect, it would seem. Hubert is apparently slinking for the hell of it. “Aren’t you running a war?”

Hubert scoffs. “So I am,” he says. “And that’s why I’ve come. Tell me, Linhardt, what _exactly_ is it you think you’re doing?”

Linhardt raises an eyebrow, consciously fighting to keep his heart rate low. Knowing Hubert, he’s found a way to detect such things. Perhaps he hears them, like a bat. “Negotiating with Varley.” He gets the sense he shouldn’t refer to him as a count in present company. “Per my father’s request. Do you always micromanage your fellow cabinet members’ business, or do I get special treatment?”

“Your business is with the former Count, is it not?” Hubert says, resolutely ignoring Linhardt’s sarcasm. Shame. “Then tell me, why have you spent so much time with Bernadetta?”

Linhardt rolls his eyes. “My school friend Bernadetta? That one?” Hubert scowls at him. “I’m certain friendship is a foreign concept to you, but when one sees a friend for the first time in years–”

“Spare me,” Hubert spits. He crosses to loom over Linhardt in a few quick steps. “You’ve never taken an interest in her before. Why are you occupying so much of her time now?”

“Did it occur to you that maybe we grew closer after our transfer to Golden Deer, when you were too busy plotting a coup to pay attention? Wait.” Linhardt narrows his eyes, studying Hubert. “Are you worried about her? You should’ve spoken to Bruckner, he saw her a few days ago in perfect health.”

Hubert scoffs. “So you intend to tell me that you have nothing up your sleeve? Nothing seditious, or…” He leans over into Linhardt’s personal space; Linhardt’s face twists with disgust as he leans as far away as possible. “... _traitorous_?”

Linhardt levels him with an unimpressed look before saying, at length, “That’s my intention, yes.”

Hubert chuckles darkly, stepping away to circle around behind his chair. He’s enjoying this _far_ too much. “Of course. And your journey here was… uneventful? I hear you traveled _without_ an armed escort.”

“Yes, well,” he says, shifting to cross his legs, “when traveling through the heart of one’s own country, one doesn’t expect trouble. Not enough to bother with guards when our young fighting men are so _desperately_ needed for the war effort.”

“How _noble_ of you,” Hubert says drily. “I don’t suppose you… met with anybody, on your long journey.”

This does _not_ bode well for him, but he’ll deny until the grave that he’s done anything wrong. Linhardt cocks his head, pretending to be considering. “No,” he says finally. “I’m afraid my trip was terribly dull.”

Hubert laughs again, walking around to a closet against the east wall. “It’s interesting you should say that,” he says. “Because you were followed nearly your entire journey.” Linhardt blinks slowly, hoping it hides the way his eyes widen with fear. “By her.” With a flourish, Hubert throws open the door of the closet and pulls out a figure, gagged with their hands bound. It takes Linhardt a moment to recognize them – it’s Isolde, who glares up at Hubert. “Tell me, Linhardt, have you seen this girl before?”

Linhardt allows his eyebrows to raise in mild surprise as he studies Isolde. What has she told him, he wonders. What does Hubert already know? He has to assume nothing, and proceeds as such. “I’m afraid not,” he says, looking to Hubert. “She followed me here?”

“As I said,” he growls. “You don’t find that odd? Maybe… _disconcerting_? To be stalked like this while so unaware of this girl’s motivations?”

Linhardt can’t help it – he laughs at the irony. “Hubert, really, how long have I known you? This stopped being surprising a long time ago.”

Hubert glares. “Fine. You insist you’ve never met this girl? Let’s hear what she has to say.” Linhardt looks at Isolde intently, watching as Hubert removes her gag. “Let’s hear it, then. Why were you following him?”

Isolde glares defiantly at Hubert, then turns the glare onto Linhardt. _This is your fault_ , her eyes seem to say, or perhaps that’s Linhardt’s imagination. She remains silent for a long few moments; Hubert runs out of patience and grabs her arm, forcing her to her feet, and she yelps. “Fine, fine!” she cries. “I…” She glances at Linhardt, then stares solidly at her feet. “I was going to kidnap him.”

Linhardt’s eyes go wide. Hubert scoffs. “Why on _earth_ would you do that?” he spits. “What could you possibly hope to accomplish?”

Isolde swallows shakily. She’s really selling it; Linhardt’s impressed. “My father died in the war,” she says. “Ever since, my mother’s struggled to pay her taxes. A month ago, Count Hevring jailed her.” She looks up at Linhardt through her lashes. “I… I thought he’d be easy prey. I thought I could ransom him, Hevring’s son for my mother. I didn’t know he was being watched.”

Hubert studies Isolde for a moment before shoving her to the ground. “If that’s the case,” he says darkly, “then it’s clear what must be done.” Seemingly from nowhere, Hubert pulls a long knife, the steel of it flashing. “You’ll pay with your life for this disloyalty.”

Cold panic shoots through Linhardt’s veins, and before he can think better of it he leaps to his feet and cries, “Wait!”

They look at him – Isolde sprawled on the floor, eyes wide with shock, Hubert looming over her with his knife readied. Linhardt swallows shakily as Hubert steps over her, playing expertly with the blade as he approaches. “What’s the matter, Linhardt?” Hubert says smugly. “This girl threatened your safety. What problem do you have with me meting out punishment?”

Linhardt lifts his chin, glaring at Hubert defiantly. “We caught her before she could do any wrong,” he says, forcing his voice to stay even. “Surely the punishment for intended kidnapping isn’t _execution_.” Hubert chuckles, but Linhardt remains resolute. “Throw her out of the manor. Watch my carriage the entire ride back to Hevring. Killing her is utterly unnecessary.”

Hubert raises a ghostly eyebrow. Linhardt knows how it looks; if Hubert thinks he’s hiding something… An idea occurs to him, and he lowers his gaze, as if ashamed. “If you must know,” he says quietly, as if he doesn’t want Isolde to hear, “I still have an aversion to blood. I would not see hers spilled.”

Hubert takes a few steps back, plainly considering. Finally, he sheathes his knife somewhere in that ridiculous outfit of his. “If you insist,” he says, almost huffy. He looks down at Isolde imperiously. “Your life has been spared, girl. Do not forget this.” Isolde drops her gaze to the floor. Linhardt frowns at her for a few moments, then clears his throat.

“I can speak to my father,” he says, and Isolde jerks her gaze up to his, her eyes wide. “We can see about freeing your mother.”

Isolde looks up at him, something like _hope_ in her eyes, but then her gaze shutters. “As you say,” she mutters, blatantly doubtful. Linhardt frowns at her disrespectful tone. Hubert takes it worse, approaching her with hackles raised; Linhardt grabs his arm to stop him.

“Leave her be, Hubert,” he snaps, finally letting all his exhaustion seep into his voice. “Goddess, haven’t we done enough here?” Hubert scoffs and shrugs off Linhardt’s hand, but he leaves Isolde where she is, leading Linhardt by the elbow from the room.

“Well, it appears that’s settled,” he says grimly. “How wonderful.”

“Yes,” Linhardt drawls. “Wonderful. Now may I _finally_ go to bed?”

Hubert’s grip on his arm tightens incrementally. “Listen to me, Linhardt,” he hisses, speaking into his ear. “This little _incident_ may be resolved, but I have no doubt that further… _danger_ … may be lurking around the corner.” He smiles, horrifyingly. “Fear not. I will ensure your safety by keeping a _close_ eye on you. How does that sound?”

Linhardt sees the threat for what it is – Hubert will have eyes on him at all times. Which is _far_ from ideal. He narrows his eyes, but says, “Fine. Now if you’ll _excuse_ me.”

Hubert lets Linhardt pull out of his grip and leave for his room. He’s almost at the end of the hall when Hubert calls, “And Linhardt?” Linhardt halts, but does not turn around to face him. “I suggest, whatever you’re planning, that you leave Bernadetta out of it. Or I’ll have to have a… _serious_ conversation with you.” Linhardt nods once; apparently Hubert sees and accepts it, because he says nothing more when he begins walking again. Linhardt feels his gaze, sharp and piercing, on the back of his neck, even long after he’s rounded the corner, even when he’s lying in bed waiting for sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GO SHOW SOME LOVE TO THE ART [HERE](https://twitter.com/FMMars1/status/1331707464274890762?s=20)!!!
> 
> tomorrow is the final chapter! get hype!


	4. run away with me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Free at last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE FINAL CHAPTER! i hope you've enjoyed this fic, i've been working on it for so long and i'm so glad you all get to experience the finished product. enjoy the last chapter!
> 
> special thanks to crj because i got all my titles from run away with me, single-handedly making this work my magnum opus

“He  _ what _ ?”

Linhardt flinches away from Caspar’s cry – far too loud, for how very much they don’t want him to be discovered, and especially too loud considering the headache Linhardt has from not sleeping all night. “Hubert’s definitely suspicious of me, and he’ll likely be watching my every move. And I have no idea if he knows who Isolde was working with, but that could throw off the plan even further.”

Bernadetta paces, her face buried in her hands, muttering variants of “Oh,  _ no _ ,” to herself ad infinitum. Caspar is sitting up straight, bristling with anger, his fists clenching and unclenching. “What else did he do? Did he hurt her? Did he hurt  _ you _ ?”

Linhardt waves Caspar’s concern off. “I’m fine. He nearly killed Isolde, but to my knowledge, he set her free outside the mansion.” He can only  _ hope _ that’s the case, though, selfishly, he only really cares that she managed to set everything in motion to get Caspar to safety. Of course he wants her to be alive and free, but he can’t waste his energy worrying about her life when he has two far more important ones to take care of. “The good news is, he didn’t ask me about you, Caspar, and he didn’t seem to suspect Bernadetta of doing any wrong.” Which, in his opinion, is extremely unfair. 

Bernadetta jerks her head around to look at him owlishly. “He-he didn’t?” Linhardt nods, and she blinks, slowly lowering her hands and twisting her fingers together in front of her. “Thank  _ goodness _ . Then… I think, I mean, it-it sounds like…” She looks quickly between Linhardt and Caspar, then to the floor. “We should leave tonight.”

Linhardt scowls. “Absolutely not. I told you last night, Caspar needs more time to recover, and you need more time to explore the tunnels.” He turns to Caspar, gesturing toward Bernadetta hopelessly. “Tell her.”

Caspar isn’t looking at him, though. He’s staring at his knees, his brow furrowed in thought, the wheels obviously turning. Finally he says, remarkably quiet, “She’s right.” Linhardt opens his mouth to protest, but Caspar barrels ahead. “Linhardt, Hubert’s onto us. He  _ knows _ something’s up. What if he decides to come in here and talk to Bernadetta? What if he knows about the tunnels? What if he makes Bruckner up patrols?” He shakes his head. “We can’t give him time. We already have a plan; I say we put it in action before they can fuck it up for us.” Caspar looks at Bernadetta. “Right, Bernie?”

Bernie nods. “Right,” she says. Linhardt gapes at the two of them.

“No, not right! Caspar–”

“Lin,” Caspar says, serious, and he gets to his feet. “I know you’re worried. I get it. But this is our best bet for getting out of here. We’ll figure the rest out as we go, but we can be out of here tonight. Besides, it’s like you said – we’ll get a solid head start.”

Linhardt stares at him for a long moment, a familiar feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. Caspar’s leaving. His mind is made up, and just like all those years ago, there is  _ nothing _ Linhardt can do to stop him from running headlong into danger.

But. He  _ can _ do everything in his power to diminish that danger. Just like that, a tension in him releases, and he feels oddly at ease. He can get Caspar and Bernadetta out of there safely. “Okay,” he says. “Bernadetta, are you packed?”

Bernadetta’s mouth is set in a firm line as she nods. “I-I have been for the last few nights,” she says, bending to reach below her bed and grab a knapsack. She pulls it on and straightens up her posture. “I’m ready.”

Linhardt looks at them both, Caspar and Bernadetta. They’ve both grown so much, he realizes. They’re both so  _ different _ . “Then you should move. Follow the same plan. I–” He clears his throat. “I won’t join you down at the stables, I’m afraid.” Caspar gawks at him; he swallows and goes on. “It’s  _ me _ Hubert suspects. Following you may very well put you both in greater danger. Bernadetta, you have the map – follow it, and you should hopefully reach Garreg Mach safely.”

Bernadetta nods tightly. “Yes, sir,” she says quietly. Then, without warning, she pulls him into a hug, squeezing him so tight he’s amazed his spine doesn’t pop. “Thank you,” she whispers.

Linhardt returns the embrace, patting her on the back. “Please,” he says, not quite as unaffected as he sounds. “What are friends for?”

Bernadetta releases him with a shaky smile, her eyes wet. “Good luck,” she says, and Linhardt nods.

“The same to you,” he says, going to the shelves to open the hidden passage. Bernadetta gives him one last nod, then slowly makes her way down the stairs.

That just leaves one. Linhardt turns to Caspar; he’s still standing motionless, as if dumbstruck. Linhardt clears his throat in an attempt to dispel the lump of emotion in it. “Remember to stay quiet down there,” he says brusquely. “Stay off your ankle as much as possible – don’t be a martyr and walk so Bernadetta can ride her pegasus.”

“Linhardt,” Caspar says hoarsely. He looks him in the eyes, silently pleading, and Linhardt slowly shakes his head.

“Be careful, Caspar,” he says softly. “Don’t you dare die out there.” Caspar grabs his hand, holding it tight.

“I-I don’t want–” Caspar shakes his head, looking up at Linhardt quietly. “Are you sure?” he asks softly.

Linhardt forces himself to smile. “I’ve made my choice, Caspar,” he says quietly. “I’ve already told you the reasons why.”

Caspar looks at him for a long moment. There’s an unreadable emotion in his eyes. Linhardt waits for Caspar to go down into the tunnels and disappear from his life all over again, but he doesn’t. He squeezes Linhardt’s hand tightly, and then his other hand is on Linhardt’s cheek, and then–

Caspar’s lips press against his own, insistent but gentle. Linhardt hardly has a moment to react before they’re gone, his lips and his hands, and he’s backing toward the passage. “You could never let me down,” he says resolutely. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

Linhardt has no chance to reply. Caspar goes down, down into the darkness, and Linhardt dumbly watches him leave, frozen.

* * *

Linhardt returns to his room in a haze. Before leaving Bernadetta’s room, he’d closed up the entrance to the secret passage. He’d also spotted the invitation from Claude, still on Bernadetta’s dresser. He’s holding it now, clutched in one hand, as he lies in bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling, dazed.

Caspar had kissed him.

There’s a lot of possible meanings to that, he reasons. Kisses don’t have to be romantic, especially in such an emotional moment. Caspar could have been struck by the knowledge that he may never see Linhardt again and, overwhelmed by his feelings, kissed him to show that he cared for him, that he was hoping it wouldn’t be the last time. The last time they saw each other, that is; in this reading of events, there’s no reason why Caspar would ever kiss him again if they did happen to cross paths.

_ I want you there with me, Lin _ , Caspar murmurs in his head; Linhardt groans and squeezes his eyes shut.

The fact is. Well. What  _ are _ the facts? Frankly, Linhardt doesn’t know. It’s as though his entire worldview has been turned on its head.

Because Caspar kissed him. It’s laughably pathetic.

But.

Linhardt holds up the invitation and stares at it, his thumb rubbing across the gold lettering. But Caspar  _ did _ say he wanted Linhardt there. Caspar said he needed him. Caspar said he’d take care of him – Linhardt swallows a lump in his throat.

_ Lin _ , a far younger Caspar whispers,  _ Come on _ .

“Hubert’s onto me,” he murmurs. He doesn’t have to imagine Caspar’s answer; he already knows he doesn’t care. He already knows Caspar would insist they could figure something out. Maybe they just could.

It doesn’t matter, he decides suddenly, if the kiss was romantic. Because as he imagines his future – boring paperwork and a loveless political marriage – he stops caring about security and starts caring about how  _ alive _ he’d felt with Caspar by his side, despite the danger. He’d rather die taking care of his best friend than live like this.

That’s that, then. Linhardt rolls out of bed and begins packing a bag.

* * *

Linhardt doesn’t sleep that night. He just walks. He can’t be sure how far they made it last night, on Bernadetta’s pegasus; but at the very least he knows their route, and their destination.

He can still see them again.

Still, as sunset glimmers on the horizon, he makes out the dying smoke signal of a campfire, and he picks up speed, hoping to catch them before they leave again, beating back exhaustion through sheer force of will.  _ Almost there _ , he tells himself, a mantra.  _ Almost there. Almost– _

There. There they are, illuminated by the sun over the hills. He sees the white gleam of the feathers on Bernadetta’s pegasus, and then the shadow of its rider climbing onto its back. Panic constricts his heart, and, foolishly, unthinkingly, he cries, “Wait!”

He’s close enough for them to hear. He sees the silhouette of Caspar, still on the ground, turn. He sees the few moments it takes for understanding to dawn on him. And then he sees Caspar break into a sprint, and only then does Linhardt slow to a halt because he’s walked far enough,  _ thank you _ , and when Caspar is close enough that he doesn’t need to be so loud he hollers, “Lin!”

“Cas–” he begins, before Caspar is crushing him into a hug, laughing, and despite himself, Linhardt laughs too. Caspar pulls back enough to look up at him, beaming.

“You came,” he says, breathless. “I thought-I didn’t think–”

“I’m here,” Linhardt says, reaching out to touch his cheek, just –  _ touching _ . He’s still in a bit of shock himself. “I’m staying. Right here.” He takes a steadying breath. “I’m coming with you.”

Caspar’s smile goes wobbly, the way it does when he’s having feelings but doesn’t want to show it. “Lin,” he sighs. “Look, you’re-you’re smiling. I mean–” He laughs shyly, and Linhardt’s heart fills up like a balloon. “I don’t know the last time I saw you smile like that. It’s been since… a while.”

Linhardt’s thumb strokes Caspar’s cheek idly as he considers the observation. Finally, though, the only possible conclusion is: “I’m happy.” Caspar covers Linhardt’s hand with his own, and he looks at him, his eyes full of wonder and light, and Linhardt thinks, as long as he’s taking chances, he may as well keep up the trend. “I love you,” he says simply.

Caspar’s eyes go wide. There’s a moment of silence, and then Linhardt sees the bubbly anticipation he always sees in Caspar right before a fight – he’s almost worried – and then Caspar’s hands do an odd jittery thing in the air and land heavily on Linhardt’s shoulders. He opens his mouth to ask if Caspar is quite alright, but before he gets the chance, Caspar blurts, “Can I please kiss you right now?”

Linhardt blinks at him, his cheeks flushing, but he keeps his wits about him long enough to say, “Yes, you may,” except all he manages is “Yes–” before Caspar’s lips crash awkwardly against his own. It isn’t delicate and soft, like the one last night had been; it’s… intense, and overwhelming, but they adjust themselves, angle their heads, give and take, and it eases into something that fills Linhardt up with warmth and joy and the feeling of being loved.

Caspar is the one to break the kiss, and Linhardt chases after the contact on pure instinct. He has no time to initiate another one, though, because Caspar  _ shouts _ , “I love you, too!”

Linhardt winces. “I know,” he says. “Too loud.”

Caspar laughs, scooping him up in a hug that lifts Linhardt’s feet off the ground. “Get to used to it! You said it yourself, you’re stuck with me!”

Linhardt laughs, too, despite himself, and he says, “Yes, yes. That’s the plan.” He smiles down at Caspar, who returns his gaze warmly. “I’ll stick with you, wherever you go.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Caspar sets him back on his feet, taking his hand. “To Garreg Mach!”

Linhardt gives his hand a squeeze. “To the future,” he says. “Lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's all, folks!
> 
> thank you all so much for reading. this fic has been months of work to get it just the way i wanted it - hell, i made changes to this last chapter the day before posting. if you can leave a comment of any length telling me what you thought it'd be greatly appreciated!
> 
> i'm thinking about some additional fics in this verse, although those will probably be a long time coming. we'll see!
> 
> most importantly, have a wonderful day!

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/cutestofpis)


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